


Damocles

by irisbleufic



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arkham Asylum, Arkham Guards and Staff Suck, Baking, Canon Autistic Character, Canon Queer Character, Canon Queer Relationship, Christmas, Christmas Eve, Christmas Fluff, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Hanukkah, Hanukkah Fluff, Holidays, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Sexual Harassment, Intersex Character, LGBTQ Themes, M/M, Misgendering, Murder Husbands, POV Edward Nygma, POV Oswald Cobblepot, Pride, Psychopaths In Love, Queer Themes, Riddlebird Week, Riddles, Season/Series 03, Trans Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-05
Updated: 2018-06-10
Packaged: 2019-01-29 18:43:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 25,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12636930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic
Summary: “Speaking of oddly-colored carnations,” Edward mumbled against Oswald's jaw, “Pride's tomorrow.”Oswald snorted, unbuttoning Edward's jacket so he could untuck Edward's sweat-damp cotton shirt.“Last time I checked,” he said, tensing deliciously as Edward tugged the scarf aside to nip at Oswald's neck, “this isn't the nineteenth century, and we don't do parades.”“We did when you got elected,” Edward shot back, lapping the spot he'd bitten, until Oswald melted.[Part 6,Swallow It, added 6/10/18 and can be read as a complete Pride-themed stand alone.Canon divergence.  Covers end of Ed's time in Arkham through an early theoretical alt-S3b.  Still for my dearanon, and of course for my trans and intersex readers, always.]





	1. Suspension

Even though Edward wasn't really asleep, the racket at his cell door sent him bolt upright with a gasp.

“Wakey wakey!” shouted Pendleton, between volleys of pounding. “Your boyfriend's early this time!”

Edward groaned and rolled out of bed, dragging the sheet and scratchy blanket with him. Clad in undershirt and boxers or not, he wasn't about to give _any_ of the guards a chance at ogling him. Especially not since they'd gotten hold of his file post-escape-attempt and passed it around.

“Nice toga,” said Pendleton, turning his back to the screened glass. “Hit the switch. I ain't interested.”

“How generous of you,” said Edward, cuttingly, turning on the lights. He shuffled back to the mattress and shed the stale, dusty linens, not even bothering to set his bed to rights. “Give me two minutes!”

“Like puttin' on your glasses and fussin' with your hair makes any difference,” Pendleton muttered.

Edward fetched the cleanest of his two uniforms off the hooks above his chair and muddled into it. He buttoned the top, yawning as he leaned to examine his reflection in the rusty mirror above the sink. Hair wavy across his forehead, irreparably mussed. He regarded his stubble with distaste.

“I'm ready,” he said, feeling irritable and entirely unenthusiastic. Never mind that Oswald's visits had been the highlight of his past six months; he badly needed a shower, and he was hungry.

Pendleton unlocked the cell door and inspected Edward from head to toe. “No shoes, inmate?”

Edward turned and scuffed them out from under the chair, shoving his feet into them. “My bad.”

“You're as odd a duck as they come,” Pendleton muttered. “In more ways than one. Wrists out.”

Resentful of the precaution, Edward grudgingly complied, flinching as Pendleton handcuffed him.

“You'll be rid of them before too long,” said the guard, leading him out. “Casanova’s waiting.”

Edward pressed the tip of his tongue firmly against the backs of his teeth. He'd learned not to protest, as if either his honor _or_ Oswald's needed defending. Since Strange’s monster menagerie had escaped, the staff had come to view him as the most exotic specimen on the premises.

Arkham’s visitation chamber was on the ground floor, hemmed in by a mundane door on one side and a latticed iron gate on the other. One guard always stood watch on either side, their radios warbling.

Oswald looked up expectantly as Pendleton escorted Edward through the door. His cane was propped against the table at his right elbow, and his hands were poised on either side of what looked like a gift.

 _Black gift wrap with gold polka-dots_ , Edward thought as Pendleton pulled out the chair opposite Oswald's and uncuffed him. _So Oswald it hurts_.

“Thirty minutes,” Harris said from his post beyond the gate. “Quimby's feeling generous today.”

“I bought us ten more,” said Oswald, conspiratorially, side-eyeing Pendleton as he made his retreat.

Needled by the sound of a boat-horn outside on the harbor, Edward couldn't help slouching in his seat. Oswald looked irritatingly perfect in his crisp black suit, patterned emerald tie, and violet waistcoat. Mascara and a hint of eyeliner threw his pale, concerned glance into sharp relief.

“I know that look,” Oswald volunteered, reaching inside his jacket. “They haven't fed you, the cretins.”

Edward accepted the granola bar, faintly appeased by the iridescent green wrapper. He ate in silence.

“There's no way I could sneak you in some coffee,” Oswald lamented. “Liquids still aren't permitted.”

Edward folded the empty wrapper and began to stick it in his pocket, but promptly dropped it when Harris cleared his throat. What they were afraid he might do with it, he had no idea.

“Warden cleared the present, but not the snack,” Pendleton cautioned. “We'll let you get away with it.”

Ignoring the guard, Oswald slid his gift across the table. The brief twist of his lips indicated either a smug bid for approval or genuine, nervous delight. Difficult to tell which.

Edward glared at Oswald over the rims of his glasses, frustrated with his own inability to offer a greeting. He hadn't slept much thanks to Rudy's (well, _Lucy's_ ) screeching in the next cell.

Oswald blanched a little, tight-lipped. He wore a smile, but the shadow behind it hurt Edward's heart.

With an effort, Edward tipped his chin and leaned forward. He tilted the box to his right, feeling along the sides for where the paper gave. He pulled it off in one piece, noting the absence of tape or adhesives save for whatever held the black satin bow in place.

The three-dimensional, if insultingly simple riddle that remained was handsome. Made of abalone-inlaid ebony, its patterns dazzled him. _Triskele, cherry blossom_. He glanced at Oswald questioningly, determined not to say something inconsiderate.

Oswald leaned forward, vibrating with excitement. “It's a puzzle. The trick is opening it,” he explained while Edward set to work examining the seams of the box. “The man at the store said it's one of the most difficult ever made.”

 _Rose window, snowflake with a six-pointed star at its center—aha, third panel over_ , Edward thought, pushing at it with his right thumb.

“People pass it down unsolved for generations,” Oswald went on, undeterred as he watched Edward.

 _Edge-curves repeat, spiral to petal, petal to dot, like to like,_ Edward thought, twisting the sides.

“A mathematician once went mad trying...” Oswald's breath died mid-sentence as Edward set it down.

Edward lifted the unmoored top panel, and they both watched the crimson spill of mechanical insides

“Yes,” Oswald said, chuckling in consternation as Edward checked his handiwork. “There you go.”

Edward sat back and considered Oswald’s demeanor a second time, no longer feeling defensive. Bewildered, perhaps, but he no longer perceived that Oswald expected approval. He put down the panel.

“It was a lovely thought,” he said, wryly fond, watching Oswald’s expectant fragility intensify.

“And did you get the biscuits?” asked Oswald, his breath tremulous as he stammered on. “A—And the sweater?” Edward felt his smile begin to fade as he watched Oswald close his eyes—shuttered for a moment, as if he had something to hide. “I—I know how drafty these rooms are—”

Edward resentfully swallowed his dread, forcing the words out between his teeth. “Mr. Penguin—”

“ _Oswald_ ,” Oswald reminded him with a knowing, indulgent smile, just as he’d done before.

Shame replaced Edward’s terror, and that, _that_ was his curse, never understanding what he felt until it was too late. Teeth still gritted, he said, “When I think of how I treated you—”

With a strained smile, Oswald closed his eyes again and held up his right hand. “Stop,” he said.

Edward finally managed to inhale, reassured by Oswald's lack of guile. He let his expression plunge from restraint into openness.

“Why are you being so kind?” he asked.

Oswald gulped, his trepidation so palpably recognizable that Edward felt a swell of empathy.

“Talking to you these past months...” Oswald shut his mouth, shaking his head as if he, too, couldn’t bear the emotion between them. “I don't know how I would've gotten by otherwise,” he admitted, slightly tearful. “With Fish out there planning who-knows-what...” Another lip-twist, inexpressible, which made Edward want to reach for him. “Me being surrounded by morons and lunatics...”

Edward rolled his eyes at the ceiling instead, opting for deadpan commiseration. It was safer by far.

“I know the feeling,” he said, encouraged by the fleeting mirth in Oswald’s glassy, captivating eyes.

“Why didn't she kill me when she had the chance?” Oswald asked, focusing entirely on Edward, suddenly calm. “I was powerless. She must have a larger goal.” As his desperation grew, his stammer returned. “I—I need to know what she is doing,” he said emphatically, eyes fixed on the tabletop, spitting the words with such spite as to imply he could see her face there.

“Do you?” Edward asked, purposefully prompting, cutting Oswald off before he could continue.

Oswald gasped and looked up. At full attention, as if Edward were only thing in his _universe_ —

 _Those pretty eyes_ , Edward’s subconscious hissed. _Storm-tossed, shade of the sea_.

Edward glanced toward the wrapping paper, deflecting the impulse. Nonetheless electrified, he knew what his response needed to be. He began to tear slowly at first, fixing his gaze deliberately on Oswald now. He could no more look away from Oswald than Oswald could look away from him.

“When Alexander encountered the Gordian Knot, a knot so complex no one had ever been able to untangle it—” Edward ripped the paper the rest of the way, pulling it down into his lap as Oswald's curiosity grew “—he just removed his sword and cut it in two.” He laughed and continued to fold. _Matte side, interrupted by roundels of gloss; interior, hint of white thrust forward as he folded the wings back_. “Details can be distracting,” he went on, resisting the urge to chase the hint of Oswald’s tongue across his lower lip. “Sometimes…” He swallowed, forcing his eyes up to the ceiling. _Gold, compressed and sharp, must taper to a fault._ “A simple solution is best. So, no matter _what_ she is planning, just remember...”

Edward set the finished penguin, pinched between index and middle finger, before Oswald on the table.

At that, Oswald broke into a hopeful grin. Entirely unexpected, a moment of such charming innocence.

“Penguins eat fish,” Edward enunciated for effect, fingers poised and tense behind his offering.

Oswald’s elation faded as he glanced back up at Edward, something unreadable clouding his features.

“I’m sorry to change the subject, but I’m concerned,” he said hesitantly. “Even taking into consideration your circumstances, you don’t seem…”

“Like myself?” Edward asked, his nebulous hope draining away. “Why should I. It’s not as if my bedside manner during your coerced recovery and my _lack_ of manners when you turned up tarred and feathered are in any way representative…” He swallowed again, his mouth parched.

Oswald fixed him with a look of such pervasive concern that Edward couldn’t recover his reasoning.

“You,” Oswald said reproachfully, snapping his fingers in the air to get Pendleton’s attention. “I need some water,” he said, characteristically tart, winking at Edward. “Today’s fee should cover it.”

“Harris, you got this?” Pendleton called across to his colleague. “Gotta get Penguin here a drink.”

“Fuckin’ unbelievable,” muttered Harris, nodding, one hand creeping to his holster. “Yeah, I got it.”

Edward had leaned forward without realizing he’d done so, both hands still tense on the tabletop.

“I don’t know how much you noticed about me that first time around,” he said, low and urgent, recovering what he’d been about to say before, “but I noticed _plenty_ about you.”

Oswald reached for the origami, closing it almost tenderly in his left hand. The movement distracted Edward until it was too late; the warmth of Oswald’s right hand covering his took him by surprise.

Oswald tentatively curled their fingers together, his expression pained. “Edward, what have they—”

“No touching,” Harris warned, the _click_ of his gun’s safety ominous in the silence that had settled.

“—done to you?” finished Oswald, softly, releasing Edward’s hand with reluctant, unspeakable regret.

Vibrating with the touch, Edward struggled against the tide of words, against everything he _hadn’t_ been able to articulate during their previous encounters. Daunted, he blinked.

“As you can imagine, in a place like this—” he tore the remaining wrapping paper in half, folding as swiftly as he could “—they’re not very nuanced.” He held up the doll, a figure as plain as you’d see on any street sign; setting it down, he started another. “Once upon a time, there was a patient—” he finished the second figure, ripped a whisper-thin shred off the edge of the black ribbon, and tied an impromptu bow around its neck “—whose medical file didn’t exactly conform to...expectations.”

Oswald’s eyes widened, perilously vulnerable for a moment before he squinted in abject concern.

“I’m,” he began, reconsidering whatever he’d been about to say. “Listen, Ed, I need to make sure—”

“Time’s up,” said Pendleton, returning with a styrofoam cup as Harris unlocked the gate and slid it open. “You lovebirds gotta wait till next time,” he said, crossing to Oswald, handing him the water.

Oswald fixed Pendleton with a challenging look. He handed the cup to Edward and got to his feet.

“You might have been quicker about it,” Oswald snapped as Harris beckoned him toward the exit. “Wouldn’t the Warden _love_ a public scandal regarding starved and dehydrated inmates?”

Edward gulped the water down as Pendleton approached him. He dropped the cup and gathered the puzzle box back into as much semblance of order as he could, clutching it to his chest.

“Mr. Penguin,” he began as the guard behind him roughly pulled him to his feet. “ _Oswald_ —”

“Hold on,” Oswald said defiantly as Harris took him by the shoulder. He shook the man off in disgust, took up his cane, and tucked the paper penguin behind his pocket square. “I’m getting you out.”

“I wish you could,” replied Edward, desolately, as an impatient Pendleton dragged him out the door.

Back at his cell, once he’d been shoved inside, Pendleton slammed the door with vindictive force.

“Got kinda intense there at the end, didn’t it?” commented the guard. “Never seen you this wound-up.”

Ignoring Pendleton, Edward set the puzzle box on his nightstand next to the standard-issue tin mug. He kicked off his shoes and climbed back into bed, burrowing under the covers. He passed one hand beneath his pillow, snagging on familiar, cashmere-cotton softness.

“No breakfast for you, inmate,” Pendleton warned, sauntering off. “That’s the penalty for sulking.”

Edward tugged one sleeve of the sweater free, burying his nose in it. Sent only a few weeks ago, it had retained some of its clean, store-bright scent—and, underlying that, Oswald’s cologne.

Alone again, heartbeat racing, he slipped two shaking fingers beneath his waistband and breathed in.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Edward pushed the peas around in their compartment on his tray, adamantly isolated at the end of one of the long tables in the gated holding area that served as a mess hall. His popularity had decreased significantly in the wake of his misfit band realizing he'd been using them to his own ends.

There was also the fact that when the guards talked, they didn't _just_ talk to other guards.

Someone knocked roughly into Edward's shoulder, causing him to send about half the peas flying.

“Watch where you're going!” Edward snapped, turning to find Helzinger looming to one side of him and Norton to the other. “If you wouldn't _mind_.”

“Oh, we sure mind,” Helzinger sneered, shoving Edward again, trying to get a rise. “ _Miss_ Nygma.”

Norton, who until that point had been sniffing Edward's hair, dipped even closer to lick his earlobe.

Suddenly focused on the action, Sharon scooted down a few seats with her book in hand, transfixed.

“Take his food,” she suggested in agitation, pointing frantically at Edward's tray. “We can share it.”

Edward folded in on himself, expecting another blow from Helzinger or a bite from Norton.

The sound of the gate clanking open distracted all of them, sufficient to make Edward look up.

Warden Quimby, flanked by the two new guards whose names Edward didn't know, strode in.

“Mr. Nygma,” Quimby said, hands folded in front of him, “you are to come with me this instant.”

“Sir,” Edward muttered, relieved, pushing past Helzinger as he rose from his seat. “Right away.”

Instead of handcuffing him, Quimby merely ordered each of the guards to take one of Edward's elbows and escort him out. Edward couldn't help but notice that he was being dragged in the direction of the administrative offices that had once been occupied by Strange and Peabody.

Once they were inside Quimby's office, the guards unhanded him. Quimby strode over to the desk and held up the land-line receiver, which had been sitting off its cradle. He showed it to Edward, pointing.

“You have a call,” he explained patronizingly. “I assume you know how to take a telephone off hold?”

Edward nodded eagerly. “Standard-issue for Gotham civil service. Same model we used at GCPD.”

“Five minutes,” Quimby cautioned. “The guards and I will wait outside. We'll cut you off if need be.”

“Understood,” said Edward, crossing to the desk while Quimby and his gorillas exited. He snatched the receiver from where Quimby had set it, bringing it to his ear as he punched the keypad. “Hello?”

“The Warden's an engaging conversationalist, isn't he?” said Oswald, rightfully smug. “Hello, Ed.”

“You've had a busy week since I saw you,” Edward remarked, folding his arms across his chest as he leaned against the desk. “I heard you hijacked Mayor James's press conference, demanded an emergency election, and announced your bid for office. Valerie Vale's your biggest fan.”

“Yes, _well_ ,” said Oswald, self-deprecatingly. “Believe it or not, our most recent visit gave me a lot to think about.” He took one of those hasty, uncertain breaths. “Your assumption that I wasn't in much of a position to help you was accurate. I've...taken steps to correct that.”

“I don't understand,” Edward said flatly, tangling his fingers in the phone cord. “I was under the impression you were doing this so it would be easier for you to control crime-related activity.”

“Details can be distracting,” Oswald cautioned, a perfect echo of Edward the week before. “And you, my friend, are _more_ than a mere detail. I need you to listen closely to what I'm about to say.”

“I'm listening,” Edward said, twisting the cord so tightly around his index finger that it went white.

“Before Quimby went to get you, he and I had a little heart-to-heart. He agreed to let me pay a visit tomorrow. Routine gesture on the part of a concerned mayoral candidate, you understand.”

“Yes,” said Edward, with cautious hope, disentangling his fingers. “I think I understand very well.”

“Whatever happens tomorrow, lie low,” Oswald said firmly. “Pretend you're sick so they'll leave you in your cell. Whatever it takes, I don't care.” He took another breath. “I mean, not like that. I do.”

“Oswald, if...” Edward considered possible outcomes, deciding they were mostly positive. “I'll try.”

“You're the cleverest man I know,” Oswald said after a long pause. “You'll do much better than that.”

Edward clutched the receiver, pressing his free hand to his chest. “How many minutes has it been?”

Oswald was quiet again, although his breath was audibly uneven. “How many did they give you?”

“Five,” Edward said dejectedly, sitting down on the edge of the desk. “They said they'd cut me off.”

“Then let's talk until they do,” Oswald said, with vindictive laughter. “It's good to hear your voice.”

 _I replay yours when I'm alone_ , Edward thought, tapping his chest. _Over and over._

“It's good to hear yours, too,” he said instead, pleased at Oswald's slight inhalation. “I always...miss you between times,” he admitted. “Nobody else cares that I'm in here. Not even Jim.”

“Jim can go to hell,” Oswald sneered, uncharacteristically crass, and then composed himself. “What I mean to say is, I haven't been pleased with him. You want a job done, you have to do it yourself.”

“I heard about the mob, too,” said Edward, somberly. “I heard Fish got away. You could've been—”

“Three minutes is enough,” said Quimby, barging back in with the guards. “I've changed my mind.”

“Edward,” said Oswald, urgently, as one of the guards reached for the phone. “Remember what I—”

“I will!” Edward shouted just before the guard slammed it back in the cradle. He let the other guard cuff him without complaint, his mind racing.

 _Pretend you're sick_ , Oswald had said.

“Sounds as if you had a lovely chat,” Quimby said, taking a seat at his desk. He regarded Edward with puzzlement, tucking his folded hands beneath his chin. “Tell me, what _is_ he to you?”

“I don't have to answer that,” Edward said, even though it earned him a backward yank from the guard.

“True,” said Quimby, reasonably, “seeing as this isn't a regular therapy session. Take him back to—”

Recognizing an opportune moment, Edward sneezed dramatically right in the astonished Warden's face.

“Actually, I think you should—” he sneezed again, gasping for effect “—take me to my cell, because—”

Both guards recoiled from Edward's third sneeze. Quimby wiped his cheek with a tissue, grimacing.

“Take this patient back to his room,” the Warden instructed with disgust, “and inform the orderlies he's to stay there until such time as they receive further instructions. We mustn't let his contagion spread.”

 _Whatever else can be said of Quimby_ , Edward reflected as the guards towed him down the drab, familiar halls, _at least he refers to me using_ —

“Must be nice to have friends in high places,” retorted the guard to Edward's right, as he released Edward in order to unlock the cell door.

Edward glowered at the other guard as he snickered his way through roughly uncuffing him.

“Do you honestly listen to _every_ rumor your new colleagues feed you?” he demanded.

“Rumors, nah,” said the guard who unlocked the door, shoving Edward inside, “but the truth? Sure.”

“Your file made for interesting reading,” said the other one. “Can't wait till I'm assigned shower duty.”

Fighting a stab of panic, Edward shoved the cell door shut in their faces, back braced against it for all he was worth. He sagged in relief when he heard the key turn in the lock, sliding to the floor.

“He's as skittish as they say,” remarked the one with the keys as they departed. “This ought to be fun.”

Edward wrapped his arms around his knees and sat there for a long time, replaying Oswald's voice.

_Whatever happens tomorrow, lie low. Pretend you're sick so they'll leave you in your cell. Whatever it takes, I don't care. I mean, not like that. I do._

“I care about you, too, Oswald,” he said with an effort, forcing himself to get up and go to bed.

 

 

* * *

 

 

From the second Oswald ducked back inside the limousine and pushed the door open, Edward couldn't scramble to join him fast enough. He nearly dropped his certificate and possessions in the process.

“Ed, let me take those,” Oswald offered, taking hold of both the parchment and the paper bag firmly enough that Edward relinquished them. “How about you close the door so we can leave?”

Edward nodded and tugged it shut, swaying as the vehicle resumed motion. He collapsed onto the broad seat next to Oswald, inadvertently bumping shoulders with him. He looked away, embarrassed.

“You're not wearing a seatbelt,” was all he could think to say, picking at the expensive upholstery.

“Neither are you,” Oswald teased, and then seemed to compose himself. “Would you rather we did?”

“Not really,” Edward said, sneaking a glance at Oswald, relieved to realize he wasn't laughing at him.

Methodically, Oswald set Edward's belongings down, reached for the ceiling, and turned on a light. He studied Edward by its feeble fluorescent glow, his eyes as wide and concerned as ever.

“You look worse for wear,” he said solemnly. “Whatever you need tonight, Edward. Just name it.”

 _I need you to hold me_ , Edward thought dizzily. _And I've never needed that in my life._

“Real food and a shower would be nice,” he said instead. “Silly question, but—where are we going?”

“Home,” Oswald said automatically, and then backpedaled. “To _my_ home, I should clarify. Your old apartment was cleared out months ago, so I did my best to get hold of your things.”

“You did your best?” Edward asked, frowning. “I mean...thank you, Oswald. Kind of you to try.”

“Oh, no, I mostly succeeded,” Oswald reassured him. “It's just that quite a number of the smaller items were irrelevant. I hope you'll forgive me for abandoning the kitchen supplies. Olga has plenty.”

“You've spoken of her often,” said Edward, giving in to curiosity. “She must be an extraordinary cook.”

“Just tell me what you'd like,” Oswald said, “and I'll have her make it while you're getting cleaned up.”

“Please don't go to the trouble,” Edward said, distracted by the upholstery again. “Leftovers are fine.”

Oswald leaned into him companionably, drawing his attention instantly back. “Tea and toast? Eggs?”

“I suppose that's easy enough to make,” Edward conceded, oddly relieved at the contact. “All right.”

While they passed the rest of the ride in silence, they didn't move apart, either. Oswald's driver, a slight woman with short red hair visible just beneath her uniform cap, held the door for them.

“Have a good night, Mr. C,” she said, lingering outside the limousine until they reached the front door.

“Thank you for humoring me on the Arkham run twice today,” Oswald said. “Go home, Ms. Fowler.”

Before Edward could ask who the driver was and how she could get away with such an informal mode of address, a stern-looking older woman in dignified housekeeping attire opened the door. She looked Edward up and down as Oswald led him inside, her expression doubtful.

“Olga, this is my old friend, Edward Nygma,” Oswald explained as she shut the door behind them. “He was inconvenienced for a while. He'd really appreciate it if you'd show him upstairs to his room and to the nearest bath. Once you've done that, we'd like tea and toast in the sitting room.”

“ _Da_ ,” said Olga, dully, beckoning Edward up the stairs while Oswald vanished with Edward's certificate and paper bag, which contained little more than the puzzle box and his pens.

While the taps and the tub had clearly seen better days, the water pressure was fine, and the bathroom was spotless. Edward replaced his glasses and wrapped himself in the oversized towel Olga had left for him, perplexed when he couldn't find his clothes. He crept back up the hall to the room that Oswald had prepared for him, relieved to find that Olga had put them on the bed.

Out of sheer curiosity, he checked the dresser and the wardrobe. In the former, he found a significant portion of his former wearables. In the latter, he found a daunting selection of bespoke suits.

Dressed in a clean pair of his old trousers, a crisp new shirt from the wardrobe, and the green sweater from Oswald that he'd worn out of Arkham, he made his way downstairs. The floorboards creaked.

Oswald was waiting for him on the sofa in front of the fire, cup and saucer in hand. There was a tray on the coffee table, as promised, with a second teacup and a plate laden with toast and eggs.

“You must be starving,” Oswald said, patting the cushion beside him. “Do you feel any better?”

“You have no idea,” said Edward, taking a seat, reaching for the plate. “Well, wait, you do.” He bit into a piece of toast without bothering to use the fork to scoop eggs onto it. “Oswald, this is—” he swallowed uncomfortably, setting the plate back down “—what I should have done when you—”

Oswald waved him off, set down his teacup, and fetched the second from the tray. “I don't want to hear about your regrets,” he said, handing Edward the cup. “Things turned out fine for me in the end.”

“I didn't do it right the first time, either,” Edward muttered into his tea. “Medical assistance aside, I drugged and held you hostage. I was surprised to see you come back.”

Oswald made an abortive motion toward fetching his teacup, but withdrew at the last instant, folding his hands in his lap. He regarded them for a few seconds, fingers knotted, as if deliberating.

“Whatever our respective faults may be,” Oswald said slowly, “and however you might have wronged me...” He glanced up, more vulnerable than Edward had ever seen him. “You're one of the only people in this world I can trust. You more than proved yourself while I was recovering.”

 _There's something here, something more than just attraction,_ Edward thought, finishing the toast so he'd have a reason to stall while he considered his words. _Maybe he can't see it_.

“I understand why you reacted the way you did when you realized I’d removed your clothes,” said Edward, reluctantly, deciding that they’d danced around the issue enough. “I would have reacted the same way, and for…uncannily similar reasons.” He touched Oswald’s hand against the sofa cushion, reclaiming the gesture they’d been denied by the guard in Arkham. “I saw your scars, and…and everything else. I was comforted.”

“Comforted?” Oswald echoed, perplexed, turning his hand so that their palms brushed. “Why?”

“It meant that I wasn’t alone anymore,” said Edward. “Not some one-of-a-kind freak. Logically, I know that’s not true. I’ve read the data, and I know the statistics. It’s just…”

“They told my mother the same thing,” said Oswald, with disdain. “That I should hide at all costs.”

“Yeah, well,” said Edward, bitterly, “you hide better than I do. At least nobody doubts you’re a man.”

“I don’t doubt that _you_ are, for what it’s worth,” Oswald offered, squeezing Edward’s fingers.

“I don’t know if the clinical will mean much to you, not to sound patronizing, but—it’s like this,” Edward began, staring past Oswald into the flames. “My parents called me Edith, since it was a family name on both sides. I looked just different enough— _slight clitoromegaly_ , the record says—for there to be some doubt. I didn’t learn anything was medically amiss until I was four, but I was always at odds for insisting that my nickname, Eddie, meant I must be a boy. And there was, well, there was the other reason, except even _that_ part of me wasn’t quite right.”

Expression far from impassive, Oswald’s eyes were so round as to reflect the entirety of the fire.

“What happened when you were four?” he asked. “Besides inevitable cruelty from other children?”

“I woke up one night in severe pain,” Edward said, willing himself to stay focused on Oswald. “My mother assumed that my appendix had burst, but I was actually suffering from an acute hernia. The surgery uncovered some internal irregularities, that I had… _have_ …” He smiled at the irony of one small victory, which hadn’t even felt like one at the time. “My father bought the cancer-risk line, insisting that they remove my internal testicular tissue, but my mother put her foot down. So the hernia was fixed, and I was sent home, but not before they drew blood to run genetic tests.”

Oswald’s jaw worked as if he meant to speak, seeming almost eager, but he firmly shut his mouth.

“Please continue,” he said, transferring Edward’s hand to his lap so he could cradle it in both of his.

Encouraged, Edward felt his pulse ratchet up a notch. The hardest part, at least in theory, was over.

“My chromosomes agreed with my insistence, insofar as XY is typically associated with masculine gender identity,” he continued. “But for my parents to discover that their daughter—I mean, I have…enough of a vaginal canal in addition to minimal phallic structure to have been assumed…” No, this, _this_ was the hardest. “Partial Androgen Insensitivity Syndrome. Not likely to develop breasts, the doctors predicted, but always possible. Perhaps it’d be best to do the surgery after all, they said, start her on estrogen once she’s a teenager. Oswald, I was _four_.”

Oswald, leaning closer than ever, looked dizzy. He also looked like he wanted to murder the physicians in question, which was far more heartening than unreadable silence.

“I’m assuming you were able to talk sense into your parents,” he said, his tone almost comically dry.

“My mother was no saint,” said Edward, breaking into a self-deprecating smile, “but she had my best interests at heart. She convinced my father that it was best they change my name before school started. None of my classmates knew my birth certificate had ever said anything _but_ Edward.”

“I can call you Eddie if that’s most familiar,” Oswald offered, startlingly eager to please. “Unless…”

Edward shook his head. “As a teenager, I started to insist on Ed,” he said. “My peers were cruel, but my father was crueler. I’ve already told you about the things he used to do, and why, and…maybe the things he said make more sense to you now. He made me doubt myself. They all did.”

Oswald embraced him tightly before he even had the chance to understand what had happened. He closed his eyes, resting his cheek against Oswald’s hair, tentatively mapping Oswald’s spine.

Humming at the touch, Oswald released an unsteady breath. “Thank you,” he said. “For telling me.”

“Don’t mention it,” Edward sighed, so relieved he wanted to laugh. “The rest’s history. By high school, I’d gotten permission to opt out of gym class. The school district didn’t want to deal with the constant bullying, and it’s not as if pulling me out of the locker room put a stop to it. I was freakish for…other reasons, too. Those followed me through college, to the GCPD and beyond.” He bit the inside of his lower lip ( _memory of the puzzle box falling open, vivid as blood_ ). “Miss Kringle was…only ever a way to prove to myself that I wasn’t…Oswald, I _thought_ …”

“Is that why she rejected you?” Oswald asked, utterly scathing. “Because if it was, then she—”

“No, she didn’t deserve it,” said Edward, vehemently, clinging to him, “but she never even saw.”

“Ah,” Oswald said, curiously restrained as he released Edward and sat back. “I see. It’s all right.”

Edward took a deep breath, deciding he might as well continue to shove both feet down his throat.

“Would it be easier if I told you what I know?” he asked. “Rather than trouble you to explain?”

Oswald sighed, staring briefly at his folded hands. “You said you saw my scars. All of them?”

“Chest and abdominal, yes,” Edward replied. “The latter could just as easily have been an appendectomy, but the ones on your chest are…distinctive. They healed extremely well.”

“That’s what Fish said,” agreed Oswald, with a bitter laugh. “Thank goodness, too, seeing as she paid the hospital bill. I was twenty-six. My mother got to fuss over me for _weeks_.”

“Was that before you got promoted to umbrella boy?” Edward asked. “You started in the kitchen?”

“Old news to you,” Oswald said, sounding as grateful for their months and months of conversations as Edward was. “But that’s skipping ahead. You were about to tell me about myself.”

Edward realized the sharpness in Oswald’s voice invited him to tread carefully. He reached for Oswald’s hand again, suddenly willing to risk everything, and tugged it into his lap. Cheeks burning, he stroked the curve of Oswald’s wrist, intent on the delicate bones of Oswald’s hand.

“Klinefelter’s or Congenital Adrenal Hyperplasia,” he said. “Does either one of those ring a bell?”

Oswald shrugged, charmingly indifferent. “Now that you mention it, I think the second. They kept tossing around a three-letter acronym, not something I cared to remember. I had appendicitis when I was six, so you were right about the other scars, but they removed a lot more than just _that_.” He sniffed, rubbing the back of Edward’s hand with his thumb. “Anyway, there was some kind of problem even earlier. My mother had a test while she was pregnant. They told her I was going to be a girl. When I was born, the visual evidence did _not_ agree, but they argued that chromosomes don’t lie. Mother shouted them down and told them not to be absurd. She said her son was perfect.”

“XXY, CAH,” Edward said under his breath, frowning. “Could be either, as gynecomastia can result—”

“It’s not important,” Oswald said dismissively. He tipped Edward’s chin up, startling Edward out of his diagnostic reverie. “I hid behind clothes and a much bigger issue, which I think you can guess.”

“Medications?” Edward asked, thoughts skipping head to the essential, scarcely daring to believe what he’d just heard. “Injections, anything I should know about? I can be helpful, Oswald.”

Oswald shook his head. “They never intervened in my hormone situation, whatever _that_ is.”

“No cortisol crises, then,” Edward said, relieved. “Salt-wasting CAH is out, given you’re, well, alive.” He squeezed Oswald’s hand. “Listen, it behooves me to see your record sometime, just in case…”

The words died on Edward’s tongue. Oswald was staring at him again, round-eyed and disbelieving.

“In case?” Oswald echoed uncertainly, making as if to withdraw his hand, but Edward held it fast.

“The bigger issue you mentioned,” Edward said, unable to meet Oswald’s scrutiny. “We share it.”

“Edward,” Oswald said, disentangling their hands, but only so that he could brush Edward’s cheek.

“You can kiss me,” Edward prompted, his heart racing. “I didn’t mean to imply it’s an issue _now_.”

Oswald took Edward's face in both hands. “This doesn't...oblige you to anything, understand?”

Impatient, Edward decided he could do worse than taking the initiative. Oswald's lips were warm and soft, his breath tea-flavored. Edward licked past them tentatively, chasing the trace of sweetness he found there. He sighed, enjoying the brush of Oswald's tongue against his own.

“I was raised to be a gentleman,” Oswald said, composing himself with difficulty as they drew apart.

“You haven't given me any reason to doubt that you are,” replied Edward, breathless and earnest.

Oswald caressed Edward's cheek again, pressing their foreheads together. “I'd feel guilty if you didn't at least think about it first,” he said. “If you slept with me tonight, I'd feel like...”

“You didn't _bribe_ me,” muttered Edward, irritably. “I'm expressing my full consent.”

“That's a relief,” Oswald sighed, nuzzling Edward's jaw, “but I need to think about it, too.”

That, Edward supposed he could understand. He nodded, ducking to rest his head against Oswald's shoulder, drawing a startled sound from Oswald when he wrapped both arms tightly around him.

“I thought about you,” he said before he could stop himself. “I thought about this, Oswald. Often.”

“This is doing absolutely nothing for my resolve,” Oswald replied, his voice strained. He disentangled himself from Edward and rose stiffly, turning to take Edward's hand. He kissed it.

“I believe you're a gentleman,” Edward said, hoping to turn the situation. “I still would even if—”

“Good night, Ed,” Oswald said, releasing his hand. “Olga will see you upstairs once you're finished.”

Edward sat staring into the flames for a long while after Oswald had gone, leaving the eggs untouched.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Edward sat in Oswald's chair at the head of the dining table, which was still covered in flyers and phones and sheafs of statistics. He rested his chin in both hands, drained, having just spent the past thirty minutes shooing miscellaneous reporters out the door.

Butch was stationed outside, tasked with making sure none of them tried to get back in. He hadn't taken kindly to Edward issuing him an order, but there wasn't much he could do given Edward's newly-bestowed title.

The real issue was that one of the reporters wouldn't leave, and Oswald wouldn't stop talking to her.

“I've followed your rise to office every step of the way,” Valerie Vale went on, seated on the sofa next to Oswald, pen busy on her notepad, “and, I have to say, I've never seen anything like it.”

“I somehow doubt you _don't_ know you had a hand in it,” Oswald replied. “Your coverage at pivotal moments has been instrumental in getting my message out to the people of Gotham.”

Vale beamed at him and took a few more notes, shooting Edward a surreptitious glance. “Your chief of staff looks worn out,” she said. “And kind of overwhelmed. Maybe you should send him home.”

“Oh,” Oswald said, blinking rapidly in Edward's direction, chagrined. “There's no need. To send him home, I mean,” Oswald clarified, getting to his feet. “But I think you've gotten enough for tonight.”

“Huh,” Vale said, sparing Edward one last glance. “Whatever you say. Congrats, Mayor Cobblepot.”

“The front door's that way,” Oswald said, shooing her curtly. “My associate, Butch, will see you off.”

Once Vale was gone, Oswald fetched his cane from where he'd propped it against the sofa and made his way to Edward at the table. He set a hand on Edward's chin, tipping it up for an apologetic kiss.

Edward's head swam with the comfort of it, the sheer relief of knowing that perhaps Oswald had taken all of his heavy-handed hints for the better part of a week. He latched onto Oswald's lapels.

“I'm sorry,” Oswald murmured. “For earlier tonight, and for not listening to you when it mattered.”

“You can make it up to me,” Edward said, sliding both hands beneath Oswald's jacket so that his meaning would be clear. “I promise I'm not pushing for this because you're the mayor now.”

At that, Oswald kissed him again, longing and possessive. “I didn't think you were,” he said quietly.

“Take me upstairs?” Edward suggested, wrapping his arms around Oswald. “So we can celebrate?”

Oswald kissed Edward so deeply this time that his head spun. “You're infuriating,” he said. “Okay.”

With that, Oswald disentangled them and yanked Edward to his feet. It was all Edward could do to keep up with him, dragged along by the wrist. When they reached the stairs, he almost tripped.

“I know that taking back the bribes was a risky move,” babbled Edward, uselessly. “I'm sorry, too.”

At the top of the stairs, Oswald spun around and set a finger against Edward's lips. “I don't want to talk about this anymore, Ed,” he said, taking hold of Edward's tie. “Do you?”

“No,” Edward agreed, unsteady as Oswald used it to lead him the rest of the way to the bedroom.

With the door closed behind them, Oswald didn't seem anywhere near as shy as Edward would have expected. Then again, Edward had already seen him naked—and extensively, too—so maybe that had removed whatever terror the act of stripping might have held. Once he'd settled Edward on the edge of the bed, he stood within Edward's reach, taking off one item at a time.

“You're staring,” Oswald said tartly once he was completely bare. “You might at least say something.”

Edward tugged him forward by the hips, bending to kiss the scar on Oswald's shoulder even as he ran his fingertips across the faded twin arcs that spanned his chest. “You're breathtaking,” he said.

Oswald scoffed in dismay, running his fingers lightly through Edward's hair. “You're _serious_?”

Edward pressed a kiss to Oswald's neck before scooting backward. He tugged at Oswald's wrists, so Oswald followed, crawling to sit beside him.

“I suppose my body's old news to you, isn't it,” Oswald said, loosening Edward's tie. “Not a surprise.”

Edward nodded, feeling vaguely anxious as Oswald discarded his tie and started on his shirt buttons.

“That's not a bad thing,” he said, his breath hitching as Oswald ran a hand across his chest. “ _Ah_.”

“Take it off,” Oswald said, catching Edward's mouth in a bruising kiss. He trailed his hands down to Edward's waistband. “Is it all right if I...?”

“As long as I can touch you, too,” Edward replied, tossing his shirt over the opposite side of the bed.

“You did that before I gave you permission,” said Oswald, unfastening Edward's fly. “Be my guest.”

Edward waited until Oswald had peeled him out of his bottom layers to run both hands from Oswald's chest down to his abdomen. He savored the way Oswald's chest rose and fell sharply when he stroked the insides of Oswald's thighs, and then shifted one palm to easily cup him.

“I didn't do _this_ ,” Edward sighed as Oswald caressed him in kind. “Give me some credit.”

Oswald's brow furrowed, as if Edward's hand on him made concentration difficult. “Do you enjoy...”

“A finger or two would...be fine,” Edward gasped as Oswald did something clever with his thumb.

“We're both about to fall over,” Oswald said, rolling away to rummage in the nightstand. “Lie down.”

Edward patiently watched Oswald toss a tube of lubricant onto the sheets beside him. “That'll help.”

Oswald shifted to crouch between Edward's legs, wincing as Edward flopped back against the pillows.

“There’s something I want to try,” Edward said, uncapping the tube, “if you’re okay with penetration.”

“Wait,” Oswald blurted, trembling as Edward coated him with lubricant. “You want _what_?”

“You,” Edward whispered, enthralled, cheeks burning as he continued to stroke Oswald. “Inside me.”

Oswald settled on his knees between Edward's legs, one palm braced on either side of Edward's arms.

“This might not work,” he said uncertainly, watching Edward slick himself and toss the lubricant aside.

Edward watched the blush beneath Oswald's freckles deepen as he withdrew his fingers from inside and then gave himself a swift tug. Fascinating, to think he'd been the braver of the two of them when it came to self-exploration. He knew what he liked, and he had no reason to be ashamed.

“You're hard enough,” he insisted, enclosing the entirety of Oswald's arousal within his fist. “It will.”

“I won't be able to touch you if we do it like this,” Oswald protested, palming Edward's...well, his charts saying _clitoris_ notwithstanding, they both considered it his cock, and that was that.

“Full-body contact might be enough,” Edward reasoned, tugging impatiently at Oswald's hips.

Oswald dipped down to kiss him, pressing their chests together, gasping as Edward's grasp on him tightened. He buried his face in the pillow, complying awkwardly while Edward guided him.

Edward’s heart clenched at Oswald’s plaintive, muffled cry as he pushed inside. Instead of discomfort, Edward felt warmth and slight fullness. He flushed hot with the feel of Oswald’s weight against him.

“Did I…” Oswald whimpered, blinking dazedly at Edward. “Please don’t tell me I hurt you.”

“You didn’t,” Edward insisted, pressing impatiently at Oswald’s shoulders, leaning up to kiss him.

Oswald sucked at Edward’s lower lip, giving an experimental thrust. He slipped out, huffing in frustration. “We’re a…good fit,” he managed, easing back in, “but this might be tricky.”

“Stay put,” Edward said, tightening his thighs on either side of Oswald’s hips. “I like you here.”

Oswald rotated his hips again without withdrawing, mouth falling open on a gasp. “Like...that?”

“I think so,” Edward said, closing his eyes in concentration, moving with him. His left hand found purchase at Oswald’s nape even as Oswald pinned his right to the pillow, entwining their fingers. He blinked, trying to keep his breath even. “Perfect,” he whispered.

Oswald swallowed and nodded—continuing to thrust, hazy with desire. “I want to kiss you again,” he said haltingly, nuzzling Edward’s collarbone.

Edward nodded in return, twitching at the first spike of escalated sensation as Oswald kissed his cheek. He clamped his thighs around Oswald’s waist and dug his heel into the small of Oswald’s back, parting his lips hungrily at the shy swipe of Oswald’s tongue.

Oswald kissed him with unabashed desperation. “I want you,” he panted harshly. “I’ve _wanted_ you so much.”

“Me too,” Edward managed, and that drew a laugh from Oswald so sweet that it shook them both.

“More than that,” Oswald sighed, resting his forehead against Edward’s jaw once they drew apart, relaxing into their easy rhythm, “I’m—Edward, I wouldn’t be doing _this_ if I didn’t—”

“Say it,” Edward begged, snapping his hips up into Oswald’s more forcefully, drawing a cry from him. “Please. I’m going to...” He swallowed the rest, mortified that it wouldn’t take long for him to come.

“ _Oh_ ,” Oswald moaned, bearing down with a delicious shiver, his fingernails digging into the back of Edward’s hand. He’d gone nearly motionless except for the tremor down his spine, his breath coming in harsh bursts against Edward’s neck. “I love you.”

“Yes,” Edward said fiercely, closing his eyes, finding the stimulation perfect. “Don’t stop, _don’t_.”

Oswald gasped against Edward’s collarbone in hushed, ecstatic surprise. Nonetheless, he kept moving, each half-breathed endearment nudging Edward nearer to climax.

Edward liked the way the fine, sparse hair across Oswald’s belly rubbed against him, he _loved_ —

Effortless enough, to let the realization wreck him as thoroughly as the overwhelming surge of pleasure. He shuddered and clung to Oswald, likely forcing the breath from Oswald’s lungs.

“Sweetheart,” Oswald murmured, kissing Edward’s forehead, his cheeks, and the tip of his nose.

Edward hadn’t heard that particular endearment in over twenty years. This time, he didn’t mind it.

“You’re squishing me,” he said with a shaky laugh. “Mr. Penguin. _Oswald_. I love you, too.”


	2. Swordfall

Oswald blinked sleepily, his cheek mashed against the smooth expanse between Edward’s shoulder blades. He tightened his arm around Edward’s chest, savoring the heat of Edward’s skin down his front. Even the tangle of their legs, having grown painful during the night, was exquisite.

Stirring with a yawn, Edward pressed Oswald’s hand to his heart. “Oh,” he murmured. “G’morning.”

Oswald turned his head, pressing a kiss against Edward’s spine. “Did you sleep all right?” he asked.

Edward squirmed until he’d re-situated himself in Oswald’s embrace, pressing them front to front. Mindful of Oswald’s knee, which he held against the side of his own, he kissed Oswald fiercely.

“I haven’t slept this well since the night you brought me home,” Edward whispered, suddenly shy. “Oswald, what we did…” He ducked his head, taking a sharp breath. “Was it…for you, I mean…”

Oswald kissed Edward’s forehead, rolling onto his back, forcing Edward to follow. He beamed up at Edward’s befuddled, love-struck expression, framing Edward’s face with both hands.

“You’re everything I’ve ever wanted,” he promised. “Up to and _including_ what we did, Ed.”

Edward nodded, reassured, glancing at the bedside clock. He kissed Oswald deeper into the pillows.

“I’d say let’s do it again,” he said with regret, swiping his phone off the nightstand, checking it with a grimace, “but your victory itinerary’s landed. We only have two hours to get ready for the parade.”

“Tonight, then,” Oswald vowed, catching Edward’s wrist as he sat up. “Whatever your heart desires.”

Edward scooted off the bed, tugging Oswald along. “C’mon,” he said, blushing. “Your public awaits.”

Once they’d showered and dressed—disappointingly businesslike, Oswald thought, but it _was_ Edward’s job to get him places on time—Olga tutted at them for being late to breakfast. She served them tea, juice, fruit, and French toast, making derisive remarks about the foolishness of putting on nice clothes before eating. She lingered at Edward’s elbow, scrutinizing, and then glared at Oswald.

“Not smart,” she said, making it sound like an extension of her previous gripe, but Oswald knew better.

“I didn’t ask you, did I,” said Oswald, tartly, throwing down his napkin. “You’d better get used to it!”

As Edward looked up from his food, Oswald held his breath, but Edward’s giddy, gratified expression suggested that the meaning of the exchange had gone right over his head. Thank goodness, too.

Butch met them outside in the driveway, explaining that the rest of the security detail was already on-site. The three of them rode in silence, although Edward made sure to hold Oswald’s hand against the seat while Butch did his best to look everywhere _but_ at the possessive display.

The parade got off to a mundane enough start, with the two of them settled on the back of a black convertible flanked by a GCPD squad car ahead of them and an election van at the rear. The van’s loudspeaker blared its message on repeat, periodically drawing an irritated hum from Edward.

_Welcome your new Mayor of Gotham, Oswald Cobblepot! He'll make Gotham safe again!_

Oswald couldn’t help but notice that Butch looked put-out to be following the convertible on foot.

As they reached the stretch in front of city hall, the cheering crowds thickened. The whirr of helicopters overhead intensified, and a flurry of shimmering gold streamers began to fall.

“Wonderful,” Edward muttered between clenched teeth, forcing a smile as Oswald leaned across him to shake yet another supporter’s hand. He plucked a handful of streamers off Oswald’s shoulder, tossing the majority out of the car. He held onto one, fidgeting with it in his lap.

Oswald eased it out of his grasp and pitched it away, fixing him with a concerned, questioning look.

“They could have done something less wasteful,” Edward muttered in a tone of amused resignation.

“Don’t worry, we’ll be clear of this stretch soon—” Oswald began just as the convertible hit a pothole, causing him to lurch face-first into Edward’s glasses just as a camera-flash went off.

To Edward’s left, Valerie Vale elbowed Butch aside so that her camera man could get another shot.

“Looks like we’ve got company,” remarked Oswald, as Edward removed his glasses and perfunctorily wiped them with the hem of his jacket. “She’s relentless,” he added, waving some more.

“That’s better than hostile,” Edward replied, replacing his glasses as Oswald turned back to him.

“At this rate,” Oswald said, lowering his voice even further, “I wish we’d stayed under the covers.”

At the parade’s end, Butch joined them in the back of the convertible, which now had the top up to afford them privacy in transit. According to Edward, their next engagement was a soup kitchen.

No small thanks to his extensive food-service background, Oswald could at least accomplish his task without sullying the burgundy-striped apron that, by sheer coincidence, matched his tie. He resented the chef’s hat and what it would do to the careful arrangement of his hair, but he smiled for the camera and shook his latest recipient’s hand. The trick was not to breathe in.

“God bless you, Mr. Mayor!” the man said, slipping from beneath Oswald’s arm to shuffle away.

“Thank you,” Oswald replied, startled at the abrupt sensation of something tugging on his hat.

Turning, he was relieved to find that it was nothing more than Edward’s fussy, plucking fingers.

“You’re doing swell,” Edward said, taking a moment to brush off his apron as well. “Another hour.”

 _I love you_ , Oswald thought, affording him an affectionate wink as he turned back to resume—

“You two are so photogenic,” said Vale, pen poised on her notebook while the camera man snapped another shot. “Practically _glowing_ , even. How does it feel to be serving your constituents?”

“Invigorating,” said Oswald, smiling thinly, thrusting the next bowl of soup at her so that she all but dropped her trusty notebook and pen. “Now, Ms. Vale, if you wouldn’t mind…?”

“Excellent,” she said brightly, backpedaling with reluctance. “I'll see you over at Saint Andrew’s!”

Oswald looked to Edward for clarification, brow furrowed in distaste. “Our next stop is a church?”

“Not quite,” said Edward, placing a supportive hand at the small of Oswald’s back as Butch stood glowering behind them. “It’s the girls’ academy attached to it. You’re christening a new school bus.”

“Something tells me I’m not theologically qualified, but fine,” Oswald said, beckoning the next in line.

Sure enough, his duties at Saint Andrew’s entailed cutting, with an oversized pair of scissors, the equally oversized red ribbon that had been tied across the door of the bus. Instinctively, as the next passel of cameras got in his face, Oswald reached for Edward, tugging him against his side.

“Can you imagine,” Edward said through his teeth, “if we kissed in front of _this_ crowd?”

Oswald released him without a response, feeling dizzy and unfocused as he shook Father Durst’s hand.

“You’re terrible,” he murmured, turning back to Edward as soon as the priest had gone to join his students alongside the press correspondents. “Shameless, even. I can’t _afford_ to imagine—”

“That’s fantastic,” Vale said as one of the cameras went off a little too close to them. “Nice profiles!”

Spinning on his heel, Oswald nearly lost his temper. “Haven’t I given you enough?” he demanded.

Vale shook her head, notebook clutched to her chest. “My assignment’s to cover the whole day.”

“That’s great,” replied Oswald, wearily, glad of Edward’s supporting hand again. “Where to next?”

“If you wouldn’t mind,” Edward cut in, “might you hold off until the closing reception at city hall?”

Shrugging, Vale gave him an appraising look. “Sure. Anything to cooperate with the chief of staff.”

“Thank you _so_ much,” said Edward, with an edge of derision, releasing Oswald to dismiss her.

Two small-business openings and a perfunctory speech in the Gotham Public Library’s new YA section later, their driver for the day whisked them off to that evening’s celebratory dinner. Attendance was limited to city officials, staff, and a handful of Gotham’s wealthiest citizens.

At the far end of the banquet table from where Oswald and Edward sat, Bruce Wayne looked bored.

“He’ll be at The Sirens tomorrow night,” Edward said behind his glass. “You should catch him then.”

“Just as well,” said Oswald, peevishly, seeking Edward’s hand beneath the tablecloth. “I’m worn out.”

After champagne and assorted _petits fours_ in the vestibule, Edward picked several locks and snuck them smoothly out the back.

Smoking against the limousine, their usual driver waved at them. She'd been messaging someone on her phone until they emerged.

“Gilzean won’t be too happy you left him behind,” she said, pitching her cigarette. “Where to, Mr. N?”

“You arranged this while we were eating?” Oswald asked, smirking at Edward as he opened the car.

“You’re as tired of the borrowed city escort as I am,” said Edward, cheerfully. “Home, Ms. Fowler.”

“Hey, you’re gonna be happy about this,” Caroline said through the divider, once they’d settled in. “That statue you commissioned for city hall? Delivered this afternoon. Just in time for tomorrow.”

“I trust Olga had the crew put it inside?” Oswald asked, yawning. “I wouldn’t want to risk theft.”

“Takin’ up a whole lotta room in the alcove,” Caroline confirmed blandly. “She’s in good hands.”

While Edward lingered outside to arrange their morning transit and dismiss Caroline, Oswald strode through the entryway and past the dining table. He paused before his mother’s likeness, somber.

“There's something I've been wanting to ask you,” Oswald said, unable to keep the accompanying surge of emotion in check. “Am I a good boy? Have I made you proud?” He turned at Edward’s footsteps, abashed at having been caught in a moment of weakness.

“I hope I'm not interrupting,” said Edward, approaching with a reluctance that broke Oswald’s heart.

“Oh, Ed,” Oswald said, wiping his eyes left-handedly, clutching his cane with the other. “You never met my mother,” he said, indicating the impressionistic carving. “Wasn't she beautiful?”

Behind him, Edward said, with reassuringly genuine warmth in his tone, “A fine figure of a woman.”

“She was my whole world,” Oswald admitted, gazing up at her as Edward shifted to stand beside him. “The only one that was always there for me.”

“Well,” said Edward, earnestly, “I believe the answer is _yes_.” Oswald turned in time to see him tip his head in a firm nod. “She _would_ be proud.”

Oswald smiled incredulously, so overwhelmed he found speech difficult. “Do you really think so?”

“Oswald, look at everything you've achieved,” Edward appealed, so Oswald wiped his eyes again and listened intently. “The people love you. Gangs fear you. And tomorrow night, the crème of Gotham will be gathering to celebrate _you_ ,” he went on, and Oswald couldn't help breaking into a vulnerable smile. “What more could someone ask for?”

Resisting the urge to approach the statue again, Oswald turned and took Edward's hands. His next statement deserved to be directed at the living, breathing embodiment of his dearest wish.

“Someone to share it with,” he said resolutely, giving Edward's fingers a squeeze. “And, if I remember correctly, we've had a number of conversations that might...suggest I've already found that, too.”

Edward pulled Oswald in, wrapping Oswald's arms deliberately around his waist, one after the other.

“I suspect you're right, Mr. Mayor,” he said, masking anxiety with mock-propriety. “If you'll have me.”

Oswald couldn't help letting his tone tilt darkly flirtatious, not after Edward had been a tease all day.

“I've had you once, and I intend to have you as often as possible. For as _long_ as possible.”

Until then, Edward had been leaning progressively closer, so Oswald went up on tiptoe and kissed him.

“I know tomorrow's going to be another busy day,” Edward mumbled against the corner of Oswald's mouth, steadying him. “But how about we—” he ducked his head “—start with all night long?”

“My dearest Ed,” Oswald scoffed, nonchalantly dusting off Edward's lapels, “is that a challenge?”

“Although I'm not royalty, I'm often a queen or a king,” Edward said with anticipation. “What am I?”

“Whatever you want to be,” replied Oswald, coyly, leading him out. “I'll gladly take you to bed.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

For a November morning, it was unseasonably warm—with a hint of briskness, just like the day previous. Beneath an overcast sky, Oswald addressed another crowd from the steps of city hall. Imprudent choice, perhaps, but he'd left his cane at home.

“My mother was the daughter of immigrants,” Oswald began, indicating the statue. “A humble cook. We did not have much, but when she was by my side, I felt loved. Protected. As promised, I have rid Gotham of its villainous monsters,” he continued, spurred by the audience's cheering. “With my mother as my witness, I vow to you from this day forward—” he glanced at Edward, who was beaming at him from the left of the statue “—every man, woman, and child in our great city will be safe!”

The crowd's applause was interrupted by machine-gun fire from a handful of crimson-hooded figures, who had emerged from the fire truck parked along the curb. More than half of the assembled had already ducked and begun to scream as their assailants cut through them and up the stairs.

 _Edward_ , Oswald thought, dropping to the pavement as a fresh volley of bullets whistled overhead. He crawled behind the statue as fast as he could, finding Edward in a half-crouch behind Butch. He snagged Edward's elbow and yanked him close, shielding Edward's body.

With a delayed huff of panic, Edward flattened them against the pavement, shielding Oswald in turn.

From what Oswald could see over Edward's shoulder, Butch had gotten back to his feet and was shielding them both. He turned his back as he drew his revolver, defiantly facing the Red Hoods.

“They aimed too high,” Edward muttered in Oswald's ear, perplexed. “They did it on purpose.”

“No one is safe!” announced one of the figures, advancing a few more menacing steps. “Not from us!”

Butch cocked the revolver, standing his ground even though the situation clearly wasn't in their favor.

“Drop it,” said the leader, gesturing emphatically at Butch with his weapon. “Put it _down_.”

Over his shoulder, Butch glanced apologetically at Oswald, dropped his gun, and put his hands in the air.

The Red Hoods unleashed more gunfire, which prompted Edward to roll Oswald even further back from Butch. They clung to each other for dear life, hopelessly tangled, beyond any care for who might be watching.

Oswald breathed harshly into the curve of Edward's neck, the brush of his lips almost a kiss pressed to Edward's skin. He froze at the sound of metallic impact, familiar with the sound of iron on stone.

Edward maneuvered them back into a sitting position just in time to see the Red Hood's mallet reach its downswing as the statue's head hit and rolled down the granite stairs. One, two, _three_ —

“You will pay for this!” Oswald shrieked, still restrained by the insistence of Edward's arms. “Dearly!”

“Now _now_ , Mr. Mayor,” said the leader, hurling a smoke bomb. “Don't go losing your head.”

The projectile landed not that far from where Oswald and Edward sat, causing them both to recoil.

“Have a nice day!” shouted the leader over the sound of the crowd's distress, and the entire gang fled.

Oswald and Edward continued to cling to each other, coughing, while Butch came over to check on their condition. As soon as he set eyes on them, he waved in vague disgust and turned away.

“Butch, make yourself useful!” Oswald shouted over Edward's shoulder, collecting himself. “Go help!”

As Butch made his way toward the rabble, someone else approached through the clearing smoke.

“Mayor Cobblepot,” said Vale, dropping into a crouch beside them, “that was a close...” She blinked at them as the remainder of the smoke dissipated. “Mr. Nygma, are you all right?”

“Never better,” Edward coughed dismissively, helping Oswald stagger to his feet. “Do you mind?”

“Apologies, of course,” Vale said. “I wondered if you have any insights into why the Red Hoods—”

“Mayor Cobblepot, I've radioed this in,” interrupted a skittish young GCPD officer. “Any instructions?”

“Yes,” Oswald said. “My chief of staff will return with one of your team to the station. He will be my personal liaison in all things pertaining to this case, and you _will_ grant him access to reports—”

“And the forensics lab,” Edward cut in, sounding too vindictively gleeful for _anyone's_ benefit.

“ _And_ facilities as required,” Oswald confirmed, nodding to indicate Edward had leave. “Understood?”

“Yes, sir,” said the officer, expectantly, adjusting her cap. “Whenever you're ready, Mr. Nygma?”

“I'll catch up with you at home this afternoon,” Edward said, releasing Oswald's arm. “I promise.”

“At...home?” Vale echoed, peering around the officer's shoulder. Her notebook had materialized.

“That will be _quite_ enough, Ms. Vale,” Oswald snapped as the officer escorted Edward away. “As of right now, we have an investigation to launch. Please contact my office on Monday for an official statement. Ed will—”

“ _Ed_ ,” repeated Vale, marching away with her pen scratching busily across the paper. “Got it.”

Butch returned from whatever he'd been doing to assist with the flow of human traffic, expression flat.

“Not that it's any of my business,” he said reticently, “but what's up with you and the beanpole, boss?”

“Muscle should be seen and not heard,” replied Oswald, glaring daggers. “That's your final warning.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Despite Edward’s enticing insistence that Oswald come sit beside him while he worked, Oswald couldn’t calm down sufficiently to stop pacing. So far, the wine hadn't helped. Not that he was surprised.

Edward glanced up at him again, frowning over a sip of water from his matching glass. “Oswald?”

“Someone is testing me, Ed,” Oswald said, ignoring Edward’s inviting tone. “They're thinking, oh, he's mayor now, he has to play by different rules. No, they'll see—when I'm roasting their entrails over a fire!”

“Perhaps I'm thinking about this all wrong,” Edward mused, looking to Oswald for a sounding board. “Perhaps this is not about you at all. What if this is about the statue?”

“Of _course_ it's about me!” Oswald railed, sloshing half the contents of his cup onto the table. _And_ on his cuff, from the sudden, ominous feel of damp fabric at his wrist.

“Yes, you're probably right,” Edward said, his eyes widening as, inexplicably, he reached for the salt shaker and rose from his seat. “Oh dear,” he murmured, rushing to Oswald’s side.

“Wonderful,” Oswald groused, assessing the damage. It would take a miracle to get the wine out.

“Oswald, take a breath,” murmured Edward, soothingly, steadying Oswald as he took hold of his arm.

“What are you doing?” Oswald asked, horrified yet fascinated as Edward began to sprinkle the salt.

“It's an old trick I learned in the lab,” said Edward, pleased to be cleverly useful. “Most solvents have as their base...” He dabbed at Oswald’s sleeve with a napkin swiped from the table, his expression transforming. “I am the son of water, but if water touches me, I die. What am I?”

“Again with the riddles,” Oswald sighed, peering at the unexpected results of Edward’s experiment.

“Salt,” Edward explained, efficiently wiping away the wine-saturated crystals. “Most people think of it as a food additive, but potassium salt is found in detergents, soaps...”

“What is your _point_ , Ed?” Oswald demanded, trying his best not to sound too cross with him.

“I know where the Red Hoods are,” replied Edward, with a sly smile that made Oswald want to forget the whole debacle and drag him upstairs. “But it’ll require a trip to the Narrows, and fast.”

As a compromise, Oswald gave Edward a swift, thorough kiss, leaving him endearingly flustered.

“Go outside. Tell Victor and his two henchwomen _du jour_ that chit-chat time with Ms. Fowler is over,” Oswald instructed, adjusting Edward’s tie. “They’ll be coming with us.”

“Check,” Edward said, dipping to peck Oswald’s cheek before rushing out. “Zsasz is coming with.”

Oswald fumbled his phone out of his pocket, hitting Butch’s number on speed-dial. It rang once.

“Gilzean,” Butch said on the other end of the line, sounding either very stern or very distracted.

“Butch, where are you?” Oswald demanded, furious at the possibilities presented by either. “The Red Hood Gang is at a detergent factory in the Narrows. We’re on our way.”

“I’ve gotta go,” said Butch, and, from the sound of it, _not_ to Oswald. He instantly hung up.

Oswald snatched his cane from where he’d propped it against the liquor cabinet, making his way outside as fast as he could. Edward was holding the limousine door wide for Zsasz and company.

“Somebody’s going to have to sit on the floor,” said the blonde hit-woman with the striking eye make-up. “Might as well be me,” she added amiably, situating herself cross-legged against the mini fridge.

Oswald watched the Asian woman with dark hair piled high on her head do the same. “S’all good.”

Zsasz had already claimed a spot on the seat, so Edward helped Oswald inside and climbed in after.

Oswald sat in the middle, next to Zsasz, since he was certain Edward wouldn’t enjoy the proximity.

“Buckled up or not,” Caroline called through the divider as it slid shut, “we’re peelin’ outta here!”

Once they were on the road, Zsasz only waited about ten seconds before shooting off his mouth.

“So, this—” he leaned forward, gesturing back and forth between Oswald and Edward “—is new.”

Edward rolled his eyes, staring pointedly out the window. However, he did snatch Oswald’s hand.

Oswald fixed Zsasz with a pointed expression, nonetheless unable to resist an opportunity to brag.

“If your opinions on the matter are anything less than flattering,” he said, “keep them to yourself.”

The two henchwomen exchanged loaded glances, but didn’t say anything. The blonde eyed Oswald.

Victor put his hands up in a gesture of amiable surrender, his expression suggesting actual goodwill.

“Chief, relax,” he said. “Nobody’s happier than I am that you found yourself a nice boy. Mazel tov.”

At that, Edward side-eyed Zsasz with something resembling gratitude, but he still didn’t say anything.

Oswald turned his attention on Edward, tired of entertaining the peanut gallery. He stroked his hand.

“Are you all right?” he asked quietly, all too aware of the turmoil Edward might be experiencing.

“Yes,” said Edward, with a taut, grateful smile. “At least he doesn’t think I’m…” He trailed off.

“Hey, Mr. Nygma,” interjected the blonde, and Oswald was startled to realize she sounded familiar.

Edward glanced at her questioningly, his brow furrowed as he squeezed Oswald’s hand. “Hmmm?”

“You are whatever you say you are,” she said firmly. “And don’t let anyone try to tell you different.”

Edward nodded in agreement, giving Oswald a questioning look before turning back to the window.

On arrival at the detergent factory, the presence of Butch’s vehicle was a reassuring sign. Edward didn’t seem to think so; he regarded it with troubled puzzlement as Oswald led them past it.

“Don’t you think maybe I ought to take the lead?” Zsasz called from the back, attempting to keep up.

Machine-gun fire rattled within the factory. Oswald quickened his pace, sure Butch had come through.

The tableau that awaited them inside was, indeed, reassuring. Butch stepped forward as they entered, weapon in hand, throwing the carnage behind him into sharp relief. Six men down, one feebly moving.

“I did it, boss,” said Butch, out of breath. “I got ’em for you,” he added, finishing off the lone survivor.

“Lucky for us,” Edward said derisively, “you knew just where to be, didn’t you. And _when_.”

“Yeah,” Butch shot back, dropping the gun. “That’s ’cause boss called me up fifteen minutes ago.”

Edward shook his head, folding his arms across his middle. He stalked back out of the factory.

Oswald sighed, surveying the space one more time. None of them would be getting up again, at least.

“All’s well that ends well,” he said, beckoning as he pushed past Zsasz and the hit-women. “Let’s go.”

Edward sulked as they started their trip back to the mansion, unwilling to speak, so Oswald finally gave in and kissed him softly on the mouth.

Zsasz snapped a photograph with his phone. “Vale is right. You two really are photogenic. Look here.”

“Delete it,” Oswald hissed, rounding on him instantly. “The reporters are bad enough, understood?”

Zsasz sighed dejectedly, making a huge production of eradicating the photograph’s existence.

“I thought you might want it for a holiday card or something,” he said in a you’ll-regret-it drawl.

“Reminds me,” Edward said, producing his phone. “I’ll alert the press. You should announce this.”

“Would you consider not including our stalker at the _Gazette_ this time?” Oswald ventured.

“Oh,” said Edward, apologetic as he finished hitting _SEND_. “She’s the first one on my list.”

“Whatever,” Oswald sighed, taking his turn to sit back and not feel like speaking for a little while.

When they got back, Oswald’s discontent only intensified. Not only were there about seven reporters clogging the driveway, but Vale was standing next to the door, talking to Olga, and taking notes.

Olga eyed the lot of them as they emerged from their respective vehicles, tapping her wrist, glaring.

“I will say it the tenth time,” she said snippily as Oswald rushed over to her, “I cannot give info.”

“S’okay,” said Vale, blithely, turning to Oswald. “Your employer is home now, so I can talk to him.”

“I am not saying a word, Ms. Vale,” Oswald seethed, “to you or to _anyone_ , until we’re inside.”

“That’s fair,” said Vale, marching ahead as Olga opened the door and directed her to the dining table.

“She’s developed something of an entitlement complex, hasn’t she?” Edward whispered to Oswald.

“You,” he said, beckoning to Butch, taking Edward’s wrist. “ _And_ you. Inside, right now!”

Within five minutes, the reporters had lined up along each side of the table, so Oswald remained on his feet with Butch on his right hand and Edward on his left. The lighting wasn’t ideal, but there was nothing for it. Perhaps the shadows would make them look suitably menacing.

“Peace and order have once again been restored to Gotham,” Oswald announced, producing the hood he’d confiscated. “The Red Hood Gang is no more. My very own man, Butch Gilzean, risked life and limb to face down the bandits,” he added, raising Butch’s metal hand above their heads.

Edward huffed in scarcely-concealed discontent as the cameras went off, shrinking against the wall.

“Was your life ever in danger, Butch?” asked a reporter from Channel 11, holding out his microphone.

“I can honestly say that if I’d have hesitated, I’d have been a goner,” said Butch, earnest and forthright.

Aware of Edward simmering behind him, Oswald dropped Butch’s arm so quickly that the prosthetic hand's momentum caused it to smack into Butch’s thigh. Ignoring Butch’s grunt of pain, Oswald took a few steps left and put an arm around Edward’s waist, drawing him forward.

“Why so sullen, my love?” Oswald whispered in Edward’s ear. “I’ve saved the best for last.”

Edward’s prickly demeanor softened in dismay. “No, you don’t have to, this appearance is—”

Vale swooped forward, planting herself in front of them. “Is there anything more you’d like to reveal?”

“Yes, in fact,” said Oswald, proudly, hugging Edward tight against his side. “There is. If it weren’t for my chief of staff, Mr. Edward Nygma, and his exemplary sleuthing skills, I would never have known where to send Butch. GCPD Forensics didn’t even know what to do with the information they’d gathered. I consider it fortunate that they were so willing to comply with our request.”

“Edward,” Vale echoed, smiling to herself, jotting away. “Got it. Anything to add?” she asked, and the male reporter behind her stuck his microphone right in Edward’s face.

“I’d like to refrain from further comment until I’ve had a chance to return to the crime scene,” said Edward, smoothly, “where, no doubt, the GCPD is making a botch of it.” He leaned closer to Oswald, addressing him with urgent insistence. “May I be excused? Even now, Bullock’s blundering is costing us answers. There’s more to this. I need to go back.”

Oswald used his free arm to nudge back Vale and the other reporter, grateful the others were so busy interviewing Butch. “Why don’t you get back to Mr. Gilzean,” he suggested. “Excuse us.”

Leading Edward around the corner into the drawing room, Oswald tugged him down by the lapels, kissing him fiercely. Edward hummed and pulled away, glancing surreptitiously over his shoulder, as if he was afraid they had been followed.

“Whatever you think would benefit the case, Ed,” Oswald told him. “But _please_ be careful.”

“I’ll see you tonight at the club,” Edward said, clasping Oswald’s hand in both of his. “I promise.”

The sound of an intruder clearing their throat prompted them to startle, turn, and release each other.

Edward stepped back from Oswald as Vale, waving at both of them, crept contritely around the corner.

“Your biggest fan,” he said as if to announce her, exiting the drawing room in an understandable hurry.

Vale folded her arms, hugging her notepad to her chest. “With all due respect, Mr. Mayor? You’ll have to come clean about him sooner or later. The public will start to take notice.”

“Then let them,” said Oswald, defiantly. “The best stories emerge between the lines, do they not?”

Vale shrugged. “I thought a special feature might be the way to go. Human interest? I could help this go down easier, you know. I already know Nygma lives here, and everybody else probably does, too.”

Oswald closed his eyes in frustration, grudgingly realizing that she was right. “I’ll think about it.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Weary of socializing after his encounter with the Wayne boy and his over-solicitous butler, Oswald made a bit more small-talk with a sea of elite faces whose names he’d surely forget. He’d limited press passes to four, and Vale, thanks to their agreement, had wheedled her way into one.

Selina Kyle, startlingly presentable for once, brushed by him with an impish grin and a low-key salute.

Overall, Oswald was both in too pleasant a mood and too tired to do anything about her presence. His primary concern, at least in that moment, was tracking down Edward. He’d had _zero_ luck, which didn’t bode well for his plan to have Edward on his arm when he took the stage.

Barbara Kean, clad in a feather-trimmed purple monstrosity, stepped up to the microphone with an open bottle of champagne in hand. She waved to the crowd, indicating that they should settle.

“Ladies, gentlemen,” she began graciously, “welcome to The Sirens. Tonight, we’re here to celebrate the Honorable Mayor Cobblepot. Our savior from the monsters, and the captain of our fair city. And now, the mayor would like to say a few words.”

Prepared to approach the front as applause rose around him, Oswald gasped as someone grabbed his arm. He spun around, relieved to see Edward even if he’d been ambushed.

“Ed, where’ve you been?” he asked, clasping Edward’s hands. “I’ve been looking for you all evening!”

“Oh, just tying up loose ends,” said Edward, evasively. “I just wanted to say—” he paused and leaned forward as if he meant to kiss Oswald, but smiled teasingly instead “—good luck.”

“Okay, thank you,” said Oswald, fondly impatient. “Come on,” he said, leading Edward by the hand.

Edward balked for a moment, but, after a second of intense deliberation, complied quickly enough.

“ _Ah_. Yes, right,” he said, accompanying Oswald up to the front, helping him to mount the stage.

After Oswald kissed Barbara’s cheeks and stepped up to the microphone, Barbara winked at Edward.

“Lookin’ handsome there, Eddie,” she said under her breath. “Have we been properly introduced?”

Edward just hissed for her to be quiet, finger to his lips, so Oswald faced at his audience and began.

“Tonight is a celebration,” Oswald announced, “not of my victory, but of Gotham's. This is a new day!”

Gunshots pierced the blue-lit, festive atmosphere, throwing Oswald out of his speech for a second time. He staggered backward, reaching instinctively for Edward as a Red Hood approached the stage.

“I wouldn't celebrate, Mr. Mayor,” growled the hulking interloper. “Red Hoods ain't finished yet!”

Frantically, Edward took hold of Oswald’s right elbow, yanking him in the direction of the wings.

“Ed!” Oswald cried, struggling to maintain balance in spite of Edward’s hold. “What are you doing?”

“Wait!” Edward pleaded, letting Oswald regain his footing. “ _Trust me_ ,” he hissed, furtive.

“Sorry, boss,” said the Red Hood, no longer bothering to disguise his voice, drawing a gun on Oswald.

“ _Butch_?” Oswald managed, devastated as Edward shielded him, clinging to Edward’s arm.

“Close your eyes,” Edward whispered as Butch pulled the trigger, and—and then _nothing_.

Oswald blinked in horrified confusion, clutching his chest as he recoiled. He hadn’t, in fact, been shot.

“Huh?” he wondered aloud, turning to find that Edward was too busy smirking at Butch to explain.

“Oops,” said Edward, with vicious glee, releasing Oswald so that he could approach the microphone.

That was when Zsasz and a number of his associates made their grand entrance from the back, weapons showily drawn. Two more shots rang out, and Butch fell to his knees with a shout of agony.

Edward extended an arm as he began to speak, absolutely determined to shield Oswald behind him.

“The mayor, _our_ mayor, vowed that all of the Red Hoods would be destroyed. And now we have the real leader caught...red... _handed_ ,” he said, stepping forward, hopping off the edge of the stage. He bent before Butch and whispered something unintelligible, snatching the gun.

With that, he tore off Butch’s hood, stepping back with a flourish so that the crowd could stare its fill.

Oswald, consumed by anger so searing he regretted not having his pistol, descended on the microphone.

“I will _kill_ you for this!” he raged, dismounting the stage in spite of the strain on his leg. “After all that I've done for you! I gave you a job!”

“I gave you _everything_!” Butch snarled, looming over Oswald. “I used to be somebody in this town, then you and that sniveling little son of a—”

Oswald didn’t have to think twice about the back-handing Butch where he stood. If it weren’t for the measure of decorum required of their circumstances, he would’ve drawn his knife. Feeling more composed, he climbed back onto the stage and resumed his place at the microphone.

“I am shocked,” he said, “and _grieved_ , that one of my dearest friends has betrayed me. But let it be known that Oswald Cobblepot will prosecute anyone who threatens Gotham!” He glanced down at Edward, who was standing with his hands folded deferentially in front of him.

“Hear, hear!” Barbara shouted, evidently still onstage. She drank directly from her bottle. “Yeah!”

Oswald nodded to Zsasz, who pulled Butch to his feet with a banal murmur of _upsy-daisy_. That didn’t hold Oswald’s interest for long, as the next intrusion was as brutal as it was sudden. The man with a knife in his back, who staggered through the crowd, was propelled by Tabitha Galavan.

“Oh my God,” moaned Zsasz’s dying former associate.

Tabitha pushed him along until he fell in a heap over the edge of the stage, just a few feet from where Oswald stood at the microphone.

“Showtime,” said Butch, and Oswald realized that Tabitha’s interference had caused a distraction.

“Oswald, _move_!” Edward shouted, dodging in front of Oswald before Butch could get there.

Oswald watched, frozen in terror, as Butch caught Edward by the throat. Both of them tumbling to the floor, Butch latched onto Edward, who struggled helplessly, with fearsome strength.

“I am gonna _enjoy_ this,” Butch gritted out, renewing his choke-hold on Edward’s bruised neck.

“Best party ever!” Barbara declared in delight, and that, in spite of Oswald’s panic, gave him an idea.

Oswald whirled around and wrenched the champagne bottle out of Barbara’s hand. Using the momentum, he brought the bottle crashing down on Butch’s head. That, at least, produced the desired result. Frantically, Oswald shoved Butch, now unconscious, out of the way.

“Ed!” Oswald sobbed, falling to his knees at Edward’s side amidst the shattered glass. “Ed,” he pleaded again, both hands pressed to Edward’s chest, shaking him in desperation. “ _Ed_!”

Someone approached the edge of the stage, but Oswald was too distraught to turn. He stroked Edward’s cheek, willing him to register the touch. He couldn’t lose Edward now, he _couldn’t_ …

“Ed!” he pleaded again, shaking him harder this time, sliding both hands down to cradle Edward’s head in astonished relief as he heaved a ragged gasp and opened his eyes. “ _Oh_!”

Coughing as Oswald held him, Edward smiled weakly. He clutched Oswald’s forearms before stroking up to his shoulders, latching onto Oswald’s lapels. The bruising at his throat had spread.

“Hi,” he croaked ruefully, tugging at Oswald until they were nose to nose. “Fancy meeting you—”

Oswald kissed him—fierce and fast, _relieved_ —without a second thought for the consequences.

Edward whimpered, pulling him back down, lips parting urgently against Oswald’s. He trembled, tongue darting with precise restraint across Oswald’s lower lip. With that, he sighed and eased off.

“How’s that feature sounding about now?” asked Vale, from beside them at the stage’s edge, smirking.

“Feature?” asked Edward, overwhelmed, still clinging to Oswald’s lapels, his brow knit in confusion.

Oswald kissed Edward’s forehead, smoothing his hair back, aware of more camera-flashes and tittering.

“ _Shhh_ , we’ll discuss it later,” he murmured, and then turned to Vale. “Tempting, if I’m honest.”

“Can we leave?” Edward asked softly, struggling into a sitting position, frowning at Vale. “Oswald?”

“Aw,” Vale sighed, sticking her notepad in her bag. “G’night, Mr. Mayor. Take poor sweetie home.”

Before Edward, scowling, could say something to Vale that he might regret, Oswald gestured to Zsasz, who’d come up onto the stage with two of his cohort. The quicker an exit they could make, the better.

“Take us out the back,” he commanded, glaring as one of the henchwomen had used her gun to make a mildly threatening gesture in Vale’s direction. “Don’t kill that one. We need her.”

“Jeez,” Vale retorted, already backing away from the stage with a curt, but amiable nod. “Thanks.”

Several minutes later, Caroline wasn’t happy to see them in rough condition. She wasn’t happy to have two assassins’ butts parked on the floor without seatbelts, either, for the second time that day.

“Well, it’s public,” said Zsasz, cordially, clapping Edward on the knee. “Congratulations are in order.”

“Don’t touch me,” Edward said, sagging into Oswald’s side, relaxing when Oswald tightened his arm.

“I’m happy for you, for what it’s worth,” the blonde said to Oswald. “Better than the old days, huh?”

Oswald squinted, her familiarity snapping into focus. _Cesar_ , he thought. _She used to be called—_

“Ms. Maroni,” he said, reaching across Edward and Zsasz to take her hand. “We’ve survived a great deal.”

“Candace,” she said, grinning as she shook Oswald’s. “Call me Candy. I heard about your time with Fish,” she went on, her eyes darting to meet Edward’s. “I _know_ , and I have your backs.”

Oswald considered her emphasis in context, taking a moment to consider the similarity of their experiences. With heightened attention from the press, he’d need more allies than ever.

“City hall thanks you,” said Edward, fervently, before Oswald could even think of a fitting response.

“Vale’s right,” Candy said demurely, winking at Edward. “You’re a sweetie. A damn clever one, too.”

Oswald decided to ignore both Candy’s comment _and_ Zsasz’s leering reaction, instead opting to cuddle Edward the rest of the way home. There was no sense in hiding from anyone, not anymore.

Once Caroline had dropped them off at the mansion, Oswald asked Zsasz if he, Candy, and— _Yoona_ , supplied the second hit-woman, with dry amusement—if they could extend guard-duty through until morning. Edward blanched when Zsasz named his price, but Oswald agreed to it.

“That’s not—” Edward coughed as Olga ushered them inside, tugging Oswald’s sleeve “—necessary.”

“Right now, your safety’s the most important thing in the world,” said Oswald, as Olga locked the door.

“Then you understand how I feel about yours,” Edward began with an effort, “and why I had to—”

“Olga, please bring a tray upstairs,” Oswald ordered. “Ginger tea with honey. The way I showed you.”

“ _Da_ , Mr. Kapelput,” agreed Olga, resigned, glancing at Edward. “With the favorite biscuits.”

“Thank you,” said Edward, hoarsely, visibly touched as Oswald began to help him up the stairs.

Oswald was in an exceptional amount of pain, but he wasn’t about to let Edward see that. He closed the bedroom door behind them, guiding Edward over to sit on the turned-down mattress. He removed Edward’s shoes and socks, and then undressed him one item at a time.

Once Edward was naked, after taking a few moments to kiss him softly—caress him all over, warm him—Oswald went over to the wardrobe. He undressed with his back to Edward, which earned him a cough of protest, and put on his second-favorite dressing gown. Finally, he brought the best one over to the bed and climbed onto the mattress, wincing.

“You knew, didn’t you?” asked Oswald, helping Edward into the garment. “You knew from the moment they attacked us at city hall. You said they aimed high on purpose…” He wrapped Edward snugly in the fabric, realization dawning. “It was so they wouldn’t hit Butch.”

Edward nodded, catching Oswald’s hands against his chest. “I _suspected_. I had to make sure.”

“I still don’t understand why you didn’t tell me what you were doing,” Oswald replied, fretting at him.

“Your shock when seeing Butch had to be genuine,” Edward said, his smile baffling in the aftermath of such peril. “The people had to believe it, and they did. And, once again, you're the city's hero.”

“This city’s worth nothing to me, _nothing_ ,” Oswald insisted, “if I don’t have you at my side.”

Edward gaped at him, the shimmer of his eyes suggesting tears. “It’s nothing to me, either, without…”

Olga knocked on the door just then, audible over Edward’s coughing. “I bring the tray like you ask!”

“Don’t move,” Oswald murmured, kissing Edward’s cheek. “Don’t try to talk anymore. I’ll go get it.”

When Oswald answered the door and opened it a fraction, Olga took one look at how pronounced his limp was and grimaced at him. Refusing to surrender the tray, she pushed her way into the room.

“ _Ty che, blyad,_ ” she chided, ignoring Edward’s startled grab for the sheets, using the tray to push everything to the back of the nightstand as she set it there. “I help only because you are decent.”

“Thank you, Olga,” said Oswald, impatiently, holding the door wide for her. “Now, please leave!”

“I think she swore at us,” said Edward, helpfully, as Oswald shuffled over to pour Edward a cup of tea.

“You’ll hear the whole dictionary before long,” Oswald told him, able to manage the two feet between nightstand and bed without upsetting the cup and saucer. He placed it in Edward’s hands.

Edward took a slow, savoring sip while Oswald poured himself a cup and rejoined Edward on the bed.

“This feels normal,” Edward said quietly, the rasp of his voice hardly more than a strained whisper.

Oswald swallowed with difficulty, his throat constricting with emotion. “I’m relieved to hear that.”

Edward finished his tea in several labored swallows, reaching across Oswald to set his cup on the tray. Apparently satisfied, he curled up against Oswald, his head against Oswald’s shoulder and his arm wrapped around Oswald’s waist. He sighed as Oswald played with his hair.

“I don’t want to convince you everything will be perfect,” Edward said with reluctance. “I’m…frustrating. I sleep poorly. The other...difficulties, I guess, you already know about. I can’t do that much, I mean by way of… _variety_ , and you’re going to get bored with my limited…”

The more agitated Edward grew, the worse the coughing got. Alarmed, Oswald set his cup and saucer aside, and then gathered Edward even closer. He rubbed Edward’s back until the fit subsided, the tightness in his chest inducing the memory of needle-like tingling in his scars.

“Ed, if we only _ever_ make love the way we have these past two nights,” he said with sincere gravitas, tipping Edward’s chin up until it rested against his breastbone, “I’d be content. Would you?”

Edward nodded and coughed again, a breathy hiccup. “Yes,” he said, already sounding less miserable.

Oswald considered his next words with care, still absently running his fingers through Edward’s hair.

“Would you let me try something else? When you feel ready. If you don’t like it, we'll stop.”

“There are things I can’t do to myself,” said Edward, peevishly. “So I don’t know if I _like_ …”

“Edward,” Oswald sighed patiently, kissing his forehead. “You’re upsetting yourself for no reason.”

“It all could've gone wrong!” he moaned miserably, burying his face against Oswald’s chest.

“If you’re talking about earlier,” Oswald said, rolling him onto his back, “we’re not going there.”

Edward rubbed his eyes, blinking tearfully up at Oswald from where he rested against the pillow.

“What do you want to try?” he asked, switching tracks again so suddenly it gave Oswald whiplash.

Oswald shifted fully on top of him, deciding that maybe distraction was, for once, the best tactic.

“I want to kiss you all over,” he admitted, brushing his lips suggestively against Edward’s jaw.

“You’d…” Edward’s chest heaved against Oswald’s, a sudden, disbelieving gasp. “You’d do that?”

“If you think my being a gentleman means that I won’t suck you off,” Oswald teased, “you’re wrong.”

Edward squirmed, and the tantalizing rub of silk was enough to make Oswald stiffen against him.

“I think…” Edward kissed Oswald, nipping at Oswald’s lower lip, savagely eager. “I think I’m ready.”

“If you want me to stop,” said Oswald, parting Edward’s dressing gown, bending to brush feather-light kisses over the livid red marks on his neck, “then you tell me to stop. Repeat it.”

“If I want you to stop, I’ll tell you to stop,” gasped Edward, as Oswald licked his nipples. “ _Ah_. Interesting, I had no idea…those were…”

“I have yet to find a place on you that _isn’t_ sensitive,” Oswald remarked, tasting Edward’s belly.

Edward thrashed and shrieked, devolving into another coughing fit. “Please don’t do that again.”

“I won’t,” said Oswald, dotting kisses across Edward’s faded abdominal scar. “You have my word.”

Edward shivered as Oswald lapped at his inner thigh, raking his fingers tensely through Oswald's hair.

“Do it,” he whispered, breath hitching as Oswald switched to the other side. “Please, Oswald. Soon.”

Oswald breathed warmly between Edward's legs, dipping his tongue lightly inside before catching the base of Edward's cock. He licked up the underside and, at the urging of Edward's fingers gone excruciatingly tight in his hair, sucked the entirety of him with ease.

“Oh,” Edward breathed, shifting his hips in response. “ _Oh_ my.” He whined when Oswald stopped.

“I don’t know about _you_ ,” said Oswald, with mock-coquettishness as he ran his tongue across his lower lip, “but I want some more. What will it be?”

“Keep doing that,” Edward rasped, eyes shut tight as his head fell back against the pillow. “ _Please_.”

“Just this?” Oswald asked, taking Edward's cock back in his mouth for a split-second. “Or did you mean...” He nudged his tongue tentatively inside Edward, deeper than before.

Edward made a strangled sound, holding Oswald's head in place. “ _Both_! Or maybe if...”

Oswald thought back to something Edward had said previously. “I understand,” he said, replacing his tongue with the tips of two fingers, testing Edward's tolerance with a shallow thrust.

“That's...that's good,” Edward panted, pushing up to meet him. “Try, _um_...sucking me while...”

“That was always the idea,” Oswald said, resuming the attention he'd paid to Edward's cock before.

After several minutes of the all-consuming concentration that pleasuring Edward required, Edward dug one foot sharply into Oswald's spine. He rolled the impact, heel to toe, as his hips snapped off the bed.

Oswald pulled off when he could tell from the intensity of Edward's response that he'd grown too sensitive. He eased him through the aftershocks, leaving his hand where it was when Edward grabbed his wrist in order to guide him into a more leisurely pace.

When Edward finally sighed, his limbs falling limp against the bed, Oswald stopped. He crawled back up the length of Edward's body, hissing at the flare of pain in his leg, relieved when Edward rolled him over.

“If you let me ride you,” said Edward, all wicked, hazy-eyed focus as he straddled Oswald and sank down on him, “I might get off again.”

“There's no _might_ in my case,” Oswald gasped, tightly holding onto Edward's hips. “ _Ed_.”

Edward ground into him mercilessly, bending low until their chests were flush. He nuzzled Oswald's earlobe, flicking his tongue against it before biting down _hard_. “We can do this whenever you want, too,” he whispered, heat to soothe the sting. “Switch things up.”

Oswald groaned, went completely still, and let Edward's enthusiastic momentum do the rest. He felt Edward clench deliciously before collapsing on top of him with a sob that faded into a cough.

“Maybe,” said Edward, once the sweat on their skin had cooled, “we're better at this than we think.”

Oswald gazed at Edward as he lifted himself enough to peer curiously down at Oswald's expression.

“Stay with me, Ed,” he whispered, framing Edward's face. “For better or for worse, whatever comes.”

“You, I hope,” Edward replied sleepily, stroking Oswald’s chest, a tickle against his scars. “Often.”

Oswald smacked Edward’s backside, swift retribution for making light of the moment, but he smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Candy and Yoona are Zsaszette OCs **[on loan from raven_aorla](https://archiveofourown.org/series/845787)** (who in turn borrows my Caroline and Vee quite often).


	3. Switch It Up

Edward could feel Oswald's over-solicitous concern as he climbed out of the limousine, a prickle at the back of his neck. He held the door for Oswald, waving at Caroline so she wouldn't get out to assist. He wasn't in the mood for dealing with her chatter.

“I'll think twice before accepting next year's invitation,” Oswald muttered, half in disgust and half in apology as he took Edward's arm. “You'd hope an event like the Founders' Dinner would boast better security, but _no_. It's easy pickings for every hypnosis-obsessed madman in the vicinity!”

“At least we stalled long enough for the GCPD to arrive,” Edward said dully, alarmed at the severity of Oswald's limp as they made their way to the front entrance. “Tetch is Arkham-bound for sure.”

“I regret,” Oswald said, nodding to Olga as she let them in, “that you had to face your former colleagues.”

Edward helped Oswald sit down at the foot of the stairs, meticulously untied and removed his shoes, and then knelt at Oswald's feet. He did the same for Oswald, unable to meet Oswald's eyes.

Oswald stroked Edward's cheek with his knuckle, unfurling his fingers to tenderly brush Edward's jaw.

“It was bad enough that Kathryn, whoever _she_ is, questioned your presence after I questioned hers,” he said softly, pressing a kiss against Edward's forehead. “And there was absolutely no call for what Bullock said to you. None.”

Edward gritted his teeth, glancing up in keen agreement. “Telling me that I _get around_ is—”

“Shaming you for something that's neither true, nor warrants shaming,” Oswald said with vehemence.

Olga cleared her throat, tearing Edward away from his fixation on Oswald's temptingly parted lips.

“I leave tray for you,” she said stiffly, approaching the door. “On coffee table. I will go home now.”

“Yes,” said Oswald, vaguely, angling Edward's chin back toward him. “Thank you. Ed, are you...”

“Okay?” Edward asked as Olga swept out the door, flinching when it slammed. “ _Ah_. Dandy.”

“I suggest we make our way to the sofa,” Oswald said, interrupting himself in order to brush a kiss against the corner of Edward's mouth, “before the tea gets cold. Be a dear and help me up?”

With jackets and waistcoats shed on the dining table as they passed it, they settled before the fire and prepared two cups in silence. The pretense of sipping Earl Grey lasted all of five seconds as they exchanged giddy, impatient glances while Olga's car peeled out of the driveway.

Edward set his cup and saucer down, almost spilling tea in his haste, and then relieved Oswald of his.

“You defended me,” he said in a rush, startling Oswald with a swift, fierce kiss. “In front of all those people. You didn't even care who was listening, or...or how it might affect your reputation in office. No one has _ever_...”

Oswald blinked, flushing as Edward slid off the sofa and positioned himself between Oswald's knees.

“What else would I have done?” he asked, voice wavering as Edward slid both palms from Oswald's knees up to his hips. “The entire city knows about The Sirens now. What you mean to me.”

“I guess it would've been enough for me to been seen on your arm,” said Edward, as coyly as he could manage, expertly massaging the taut tendons he found at the juncture of hip and thigh. “Let alone seated at your side while you told off the new Captain of the GCPD in the line of duty.”

Oswald's eyelashes fluttered, a sign of desire-fueled distraction. “Well, he's as insufferable as Jim.”

Edward dragged his left hand down to massage Oswald's knee, gradually working at the tension from there down to his ankle. Two minutes, if that, and Oswald tipped his head back against the sofa with a sigh. Edward took the chance to tug off Oswald's socks, grazing his thumbs along Oswald's insteps. It didn't seem to be a ticklish day for Oswald.

“Don't they _wish_ ,” said Edward, finally turning his attention on Oswald's fly, “they could see us now.”

Oswald opened his eyes, breathing fast as he stared down at Edward. “Ed, this—doesn't require—”

“No, but my curiosity does,” replied Edward, smiling wryly, enjoying Oswald's breathy moan as he unbuttoned Oswald's boxers. “I was cheated out of some excellent wine, _so_...”

“I doubt I'm any substitute,” Oswald choked, his flush deepening as Edward thoughtfully fondled him.

“ _Hmmm_ ,” said Edward, dismissively, bending to take Oswald's cock between his lips. “We'll see.”

“Ed,” Oswald panted, his fingers a sudden, frantic tangle in Edward's hair. “ _Edward_ , I want—”

Edward continued to suck him, as enamored with the taste of Oswald's skin _here_ as anywhere else. Besides, not having to worry about his lamentable gag reflex was a godsend.

“Too much?” he asked after a few more seconds, adoringly resting his cheek against Oswald's thigh.

“No,” sighed Oswald, brushing Edward's hair off his forehead, “but I wanted to ask you something.”

“Anything,” Edward said, nuzzling him, drawing a gasp. “You deserve this as much as I enjoy it.”

“Inopportune, I'm afraid,” Oswald said, biting his lip, “but important. I tried before. During my last visit to you in Arkham, but you didn't get the chance to answer. Not...that you would've had to.”

Edward closed his eyes and nuzzled Oswald again. He kissed the tip, lapping when Oswald whined.

“What they did to me, fortunately, was nothing,” he mumbled. “They only ever got around to words.”

Oswald tightened his fingers briefly in Edward's hair, familiar fury pulling every muscle in him taut.

“We might,” he said, caressing Edward's cheeks, “throw a dinner of our own. Emphasis on manners.”

Edward grinned, all too willing to be tugged up and into Oswald's lap. “I'm very good in the kitchen.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Arranging delivery had taken the better part of a week, but Oswald had been in no particular rush.

Zsasz had taken care in selecting which pair of his crew would help with the abduction, insisting that it was no more than a three-person job. He had agreed to doing twenty-four hours’ worth of his Paranoia Special on the trio—not that they _needed_ much, given their place of employment—while Oswald found a way to keep Edward busy at work until late.

Olga had stoically accepted that the fruits of her labors would not actually be enjoyed by their guests.

Seated at the head of the table, sipping wine, Oswald beamed serenely as an astonished Edward, with briefcase still in hand, entered the room.

Edward's jaw worked for a second as he assessed the tableau, in which Zsasz and his henchwomen, one stationed behind each bound captive, featured prominently. He blinked at them, as if working out a puzzle.

“Hi there,” said Zsasz, waving from his post behind Harris. “Happy, uh...Two-Week Anniversary?”

Oswald covered his eyes in abject frustration, rubbing from the bridge of his nose down to his chin.

“Victor,” he said, regaining his composure, “we have been _over_ this. Seen and not heard.”

“Righty-o, chief,” said Zsasz, gesturing to the blonde behind Pendleton for Edward's benefit. “You already know Candy, and this—” he indicated the black woman behind the other guard “—is Leonara.”

“You,” spat the guard, whose name badge read _MATTHEWS_ , “are some sick motherfuckers.”

Edward set his briefcase down next to the credenza, giving the ladies a perfunctory wave. He made his way to the head of the table, gave Oswald a peck on the lips, and then approached Matthews.

Oswald hadn't heard Edward remove the switchblade from his pocket, but it was at the guard's throat in a flash. He couldn't help admiring Edward's grace and poise, how far he'd come since Mr. Leonard.

“That's an ironic statement,” Edward said, using the point of the blade to draw a thin red line down Matthews's windpipe, “given the plans you and your colleague had for me. Isn't it?”

While Matthews whimpered, Oswald sat back in his chair and cast appraising glances at Pendleton and Harris. Neither one of them would look at him, so Oswald slammed down his glass.

“If I were you,” he said with vicious glee, “I'd pay attention to the show. It's entirely for your benefit.”

Edward applied just enough pressure to sink the point fractionally into the hollow of Matthews's throat.

“I only meant I was gonna _look_!” Matthews cried. “I'm not out to lose my job. I'm not stupid!”

Pendleton took Oswald by surprise, snorting and shaking his head down at the plate in front of him.

“That's pretty fuckin' debatable,” he said hoarsely. “Do us all a favor, jackass, and shut your trap.”

Edward turned his head, grinning at Pendleton and Harris in turn, and sank the blade about an inch. He let Matthews shriek for effect before ramming the knife as far as it would go, leaving it in place.

“I always had a soft spot for you two,” he said while Matthews gurgled. “Insofar as it was possible.”

Oswald took a long swig of wine, if only to slow the awestruck, possessive fire in his veins. This encounter would last as long as Edward needed it to, and passion was a poor excuse to rush.

“We, uh,” Harris offered, blanching as he forced a smile at Edward, “always liked you, too. Polite.”

“Jesus H. _Christ_ ,” Pendleton hissed, kicking Harris's foot under the table. “Shut the hell up.”

Edward turned his attention back to Matthews, tapping his shoulder. “You haven't eaten your dinner.”

Matthews grunted threateningly, a sound that made Oswald long to draw his pistol and finish the job.

“Maybe dessert's more your speed,” Edward went on, jiggling the knife whimsically. “Cake or death?”

What passed Matthews's lips might have been _cake_ , but it was lost beneath Candy's laughter.

“Sorry,” Edward said, glib and threatening in the same impressive breath, “but we're all out of cake.”

“Hey,” blurted Zsasz, tapping the barrel of his gun against Harris's head. “Eddie Izzard. Nice one!”

Oswald wanted to snap at him again, but it was a lost cause when his crew were snickering with him.

Edward took a moment to appreciate Matthews's pathetic rasping before taking hold of the knife-handle. Instead of withdrawing the blade, he maneuvered it up and at a diagonal, deliberately messy, _digging_. He let go and stepped aside once he'd severed the carotid, satisfied.

“There,” he said to Pendleton. “You won't have to worry about _him_ shooting off his mouth.”

Oswald smirked calculatingly at the two remaining guards as they exchanged nervous sidelong glances.

“Now, see,” he began, pointing at one after the other, “Ed likes you, so I'm inclined to show mercy.”

Edward strode back over to Oswald and perched on the arm of Oswald's chair. “Conditions,” he said.

Before Harris could share whatever retort had come to him, Pendleton kicked his ankle with a _crack_.

“Name 'em,” he sighed while Harris writhed in silent agony. “We know how this bullshit works.”

“In exchange for your lives, you will serve as my informants,” Oswald said, sliding an arm around Edward's waist. “Keep an eye on Barnes and Tetch. Those two are particularly naughty.”

While Pendleton and Harris babbled their agreement, Edward pressed his lips against Oswald's ear.

“How did you _know_ this kind of foreplay is exactly what I wanted?” he whispered in delight.

“Get out,” Oswald instructed Victor, tightening his hold on Edward, “and take the leftovers with you.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Edward skirted the periphery of the bedroom, matches in hand, solemnly lighting one candle after another. In spite of the city-wide power outage and its maniacal perpetrator, he wasn’t afraid.

Behind him, Oswald shifted audibly on the bed. “I’m enjoying the view, but could you work faster?”

Edward shook out the latest match, glancing flirtatiously over his shoulder. “Only four more to go.”

“At least you enjoy playing with fire, clothes or no clothes,” Oswald groused, rolling over, eyes shut.

Quickly finishing the job, Edward abandoned the matchbox and burnt-out stubs on Oswald’s dressing table. He dashed to the bed and climbed in beside Oswald, who was equally devoid of apparel.

“We’ll be fine,” he said quietly, spooning Oswald, kissing his neck. “Gabe and Zsasz have got this.”

Oswald squirmed around in Edward’s embrace, no longer sulking. He slid his thigh between Edward’s.

“I don’t really care what happens out there,” he said. “I know I should, but…you’re what’s important.”

“The press will accuse you of hiding,” said Edward, hesitantly, succumbing to Oswald’s warm breath against his lips. “No matter how well Vale’s feature on us was received, I don’t think she can save…”

“Let them eat cake,” Oswald mumbled against Edward’s mouth, stealing another eager, searing kiss.

“Death is more likely,” Edward sighed in contentment, lazily indifferent. Some jokes never got old.

“ _Did_ you want something special?” Oswald asked. “In case the peasants storm our fortress?”

Edward shrugged, nibbling at Oswald’s earlobe. “I’m not tired of you…doing what you do best.”

“That’s at least three or four different things,” squeaked Oswald, impatient. “By your reckoning.”

Considering the topics at hand ( _numbers, Oswald’s intimate proficiencies_ ), Edward smiled.

“Do you think sixty-nining actually works?” he wondered aloud, and Oswald coughed profusely.

“I can tell you right now that will _not_ be comfortable for me,” Oswald said with regret.

“You’ve…you’ve done it before?” Edward asked, ashamed of the tremor underlying his question.

“Of course not,” said Oswald, exasperated, “but my leg is _not_ playing nice at the moment.”

Edward fell back to lavishing attention on Oswald’s neck and earlobe, his thoughts disintegrating to devoted mush. Surely he could think of something else novel for them to do, _surely_ …

“You were enjoying the view,” he supplied breathlessly, pinching Oswald’s backside. “Before.”

“We’ve sussed out why _that_ doesn’t work,” Oswald huffed. “Neither of us has the length.”

“That isn’t what I had in mind,” Edward said, pushing Oswald onto his back. He threw down the covers and fetched their lubricant from the nightstand, returning with one hand coated in a liberal amount. He plopped down on the mattress, wrapping his fingers around Oswald’s cock.

“I think,” Oswald gasped, thrusting urgently into Edward’s touch, “I understand where this is going.”

“According to the internet, reverse cowboy is a thing,” said Edward, conversationally, “but not like—”

“Please keep your lurid web-searches to yourself,” Oswald groaned, nonetheless breathier than ever.

“I can’t help it,” Edward said, giving Oswald a few more strokes for good measure. “Research is fun.”

The last thing he saw before cautiously shifting to straddle Oswald backwards was Oswald’s frown.

“Wait,” he blurted, breath hitching as Edward took him in hand. “This might be…a bad angle for…”

“I’d thought of that,” Edward confessed, sighing as he sank onto Oswald in one movement, experimentally shifting his hips. “And I won’t know till I…” The discomfort was immediate. “ _Ow_.”

“Stop,” Oswald insisted, shoving at Edward’s backside. “We’re not doing this. You’re in pain.”

Edward let Oswald slip free, wobbling off him. He flopped on his back, glaring hard at the ceiling.

“Doesn’t that just ruin the mood,” he retorted with disgust, desperately willing his eyes not to sting.

“Darling, _no_ ,” Oswald murmured, scooting closer, sliding his good leg across Edward’s.

“I told you this would happen,” Edward said, losing his train of thought as Oswald straddled him.

“I love you,” Oswald murmured, bending low as he took them both in hand, “and I don’t _care_ what happens tomorrow.” He stroked them at a demanding pace, setting Edward’s nerves alight.

“As long as I’m…” Edward whimpered into Oswald’s mouth, clinging to him as they kissed, moving as much as Oswald’s position permitted. Otherwise, he enjoyed the security of being pinned. “As long as I’m not out of a job.”

Oswald moaned sharply, trembling against him. “You can be my useless, handsome lay-about husband for all I care,” he panted, eyes widening as he realized too late what he'd said. “Heaven knows I can afford it.”

“Yes,” Edward said, overwhelmed with emotion. “Not to the useless lay-about part, but… _yes_.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Oswald adjusted the drape of his open dressing gown, mildly self-conscious as Edward cracked the bathroom door and peered out at him. Almost immediately, the door slammed shut. Oswald clenched his fists at his sides, regretting that he'd left his cane downstairs.

“That is not lingerie,” Edward accused reproachfully. “We _agreed_ on the definition of lingerie!”

“If you’d just _look closer_ ,” shouted Oswald, in frustration, “you’d realize I’m within bounds!”

Edward opened the door again, this time only a sliver wider. He’d put his glasses back on, and the one cheekbone Oswald could see looked pink. He was as endearing as he was irritating, the mere fact of his skittishness a curious form of reassurance.

“Fine,” he retorted, eyeing Oswald suspiciously up and down. “Since you know so much, wow me.”

In defiance of Edward’s contrary mood, Oswald let his dressing gown fall to the floor. He was determined not to give in to the impulse to screw his eyes shut or to turn away, reminding himself that they both suffered from the same form of anxiety.

“Oh,” Edward said, fixated on the sheer, knee-length black négligée Oswald wore. “That’s...that’s very...” He cleared his throat, forcefully shutting the door. “Just a minute! Finishing touches!”

Oswald limped over to the dressing table and sat down, inspecting his reflection with a sigh. He picked at his hair, which he’d deliberately left unwaxed for a softer look. It still stuck up this way and that—haphazard, yet artful in the fashion it had dried. He ran one fingertip beneath each eye, disappointed when the action left traces of mascara on his nails. Sex-proof, his _ass_.

The terms of _this_ particular foray into adventurousness hadn’t been easy to reach.

Since their ousting from city hall, Edward had been struggling to define himself in spite of Oswald’s continual reassurance. He’d risked his neck to bait—and ultimately _kill_ —several of Oswald’s most vocal opponents. He'd disguised the deaths as suicides.

The GCPD’s propensity for colossal blunders aside, Oswald wasn’t sure how long he could protect Edward without endangering them both. Especially not since Edward’s wardrobe had grown greener and greener, and his riddles more abundant. Still, he’d move heaven and earth…

Oswald retraced his eyeliner to waste time, pushing his worry as far to the back of his mind as he possibly could. He added a dusting of violet eyeshadow to the charcoal he’d already applied, grimacing when he realized that the difference was imperceptible.

Tugging open the dressing-table drawer, he dropped both the eyeliner pencil and the eyeshadow compact into it. He rummaged through the remainder of the items he’d stashed there, discouraged at their lack of utility under the circumstances. Stray cufflinks, a tin of tie pins? _No_.

“Edward,” he ventured uncertainly, raising his voice. “Is everything all right? Do you need—”

“I know how to dress myself!” Edward snapped in return. “It’s just that this is…well, fiddly!”

Struggling to remain distracted, Oswald continued to root through the contents of the drawer. His fingers brushed the folded handkerchief before he even realized why it was there. Unraveling the white bundle in his lap, he discovered the penguin Edward had folded for him in Arkham. Whether it was traditional origami or proof of Edward’s impromptu brilliance, Oswald didn’t care. He traced its worn edges with his fingertip.

Aside from the restoration of his health, the saving of his _life_ , it was the first gift Edward had given him. And, for that fact, he counted it as one of his most priceless possessions. He set it on the dressing table, bunching the handkerchief around it like a nest.

“Oswald?” said Edward, who’d crept out of the bathroom so stealthily that Oswald hadn’t heard. “I’m...”

Inevitably, like the best kind of inadvertent revenge, it was Oswald’s turn to inarticulately stare.

Edward was so busy gaping at his reflection in the triptych mirror that _he_ didn’t notice Oswald stepping up beside him. He flinched when Oswald slid an arm around his waist, but immediately relaxed into the contact.

“The mask is overdoing it a touch, I told myself,” Edward muttered, fussing with his alluringly wavy hair. “I can’t wear my glasses with it unless...”

Oswald insinuated himself between Edward and the mirror, plucking at the straps of Edward’s balconette. Made of lavender satin overlaid with panels of emerald lace, it fit him unfairly well.

“The matching garter belt is a nice touch,” Oswald said, smoothing his palms from Edward’s hips to his black-stocking-covered thighs. “No underthings?” He pinched Edward’s exposed backside. “ _Tsk_.”

“These aren’t women’s clothes,” said Edward, insistent and scripted. “They’re _my_ clothes. I bought them.”

Oswald leaned in and kissed Edward’s clavicle, enjoying the dramatic rise and fall of his chest. He reached behind Edward and toyed with the domino mask’s long, ribbon-like ends where they dangled from a knot at the back of his head.

“I know,” said Oswald, reassuringly, using the strands of fabric to tickle Edward’s shoulders. “Just like this is mine. Your comedian has it right.”

“My king’s colors,” Edward murmured, shivering at the leisurely tease, abashed as he flushed deeper.

“My beloved’s,” Oswald replied, unable to swallow delighted laughter as he hiked up the négligée to expose the purple-stitched green garter around his right thigh. Itchy, but worth Edward’s gasp of surprise.

“I know I pull off the look, but this will take some getting used to,” Edward admitted. “Undress me?”

“With pleasure,” Oswald replied, steering Edward toward the bed, “but you’re leaving the mask on.”


	4. Seasonal Interlude

Even with his legs spread so that Oswald could rub against him through the whisper-fine fabric of the négligée he wore, Edward couldn't help but take a moment to reflect. He kissed Oswald, encouraged when Oswald worked a hand between the duvet and the middle of his back.

In the scarcely two months they'd been together, they'd gained control of city hall and lost it. Valerie Vale's best written efforts at humanizing their relationship hadn't been able to withstand the slings and arrows of a live television interview with the formidable Margaret Hearst.

Still, a joyous civil wedding and expanded control of Gotham's underworld more than made up for it.

“You look so handsome,” Oswald said, humming as Edward bunched the négligée up around Oswald's hips and impatiently snapped the garter. “What’s the matter?” he asked, thumbing the hook of Edward's balconette.

“Wait,” Edward gasped, moving his hand from Oswald's thigh to his bicep, staying him. “Leave it.”

“You asked me to undress you,” said Oswald, toying with the domino mask's knot. “Have you changed your mind already?”

“You—this is—you make me—” Edward struggled to find the right words, hoping that just hitching one leg around Oswald's waist and dragging him forward would speak volumes “—I’m _enjoying_ this.”

Oswald's eyes shone that with glazed-over, impossible adoration that meant he either wanted to cuddle until they fell asleep _or_ to fuck Edward senseless. Edward's money was on the latter, but it was best not to take anything for granted.

“I'll leave it on as long as you're comfortable,” said Oswald, hesitantly, running his palm shakily up and down Edward's stockinged thigh. “I wouldn't mind if...we both stayed like this, and if you'd let me...”

Edward had lost control of his breathing, and he felt like crawling out of his skin. He made sure Oswald's négligée was still out of the way, pinning it against Oswald's ribcage with his knees.

“Why do you think I didn't bother with the matching underwear?” he huffed. “I'm already...”

Oswald shifted his hips so his erection teased at Edward's cock before brushing against the slickness beneath. “Oh,” he breathed, relaxing, realizing he wouldn't need to rummage in the drawer. “Yes.”

The texture of the fabric gathered between them was at least as enthralling as Oswald pushing inside him, and Edward would never get enough of Oswald's expression. He knew how it felt to _him_ , anyway, a heady flare of warmth from chest to belly as they pressed flush.

“If you'd wanted to spend Christmas Eve some other way,” Oswald sighed, eyelids fluttering, working a hand between them so he could stroke Edward, “I would've called this off.”

Edward closed his eyes in bliss. He tipped his head back into the pillow, scarcely able to pay attention.

“Hanukkah ended...” He lost count when Oswald's touch in combination with a thrust made him shudder. “Ten _nnn_ —nights ago. Stop, too much.”

Oswald removed his hand and kissed Edward's jaw, humming contently in response, just moving.

“You never mentioned holidays with your family,” he murmured. “Is that what they celebrated?”

“My mother did,” Edward managed. He wound his arms around Oswald's neck and focused on how the négligée grazed his collarbone, how he felt simultaneously dressed and not-dressed, how the garter belt and stockings affected the continuity of skin-against-skin. “We had a menorah.”

Oswald faltered a little in his rhythm, exhaling on a breathy moan. “We can get one for next year.”

“You didn't tell Olga to put up a tree,” Edward said, inhaling sharply, “but the white lights are nice.”

Pinning Edward with a deliciously messy kiss, Oswald yanked at the knot again, catching some of Edward's hair with it. The brief, dazzling pain set Edward's nerves alight. Oswald jerked harder into Edward at the resulting moan, repeating the action.

All it took was a nod from Edward, that and the catch of his teeth at Oswald's lower lip. _More_.

Thrilling, to think Oswald got off harder and longer on Edward making that much noise. He dug his fingers into the backs of Edward's thighs, releasing the garter-clips one _snap_ after another.

Edward moaned loudly, embarrassed that the intensity of his orgasm made vocal control impossible.

After they'd lain there for a while, quietening into a drowse, Edward whispered, “Merry Christmas.”

Oswald mumbled and rolled off him, tugging Edward's arm around his waist. “Not yet,” he repeated.

Edward spooned him for a while, nuzzling Oswald's hair. It was rare he got the chance without product in the way. Latching onto Oswald's words, he was suddenly less inclined to lethargy than scheming.

Once Oswald was asleep, Edward got out of bed and went to the bathroom. He stripped off the mask, balconette, garter belt, and stockings. Donning the dressing gown he'd left hanging on the back of the door, he considered the foregone panties on the hook beneath.

Shrugging, he decided to put them on.

The rest of the house was quiet, although they'd left on sufficient lights to permit for kitchen runs. However, a quick snack wasn't what Edward was after. He was grateful he'd gone to the trouble of learning what Olga kept where, because his plans would result in a racket no matter what.

Oswald didn't wander downstairs and catch him until Edward was well into beating the eggs, shortening, sugar, and vanilla into satisfying fluff. He'd already set aside the milk in a liquid measuring cup and the baking powder, flour, and salt in a bowl for folding in next.

“I know you're more likely to feel like eating than napping, but what is this?” Oswald asked.

“Sugar cookies,” Edward explained, reaching for the milk without looking up. “For tomorrow.”

Oswald peered over his shoulder as he emptied a third of the milk into the mixing bowl. “Huh.”

“Did your mother ever make them?” Edward asked, adding some of the flour mixture as he stirred.

“Sometimes,” Oswald admitted, reaching from behind Edward for the milk, pouring in the remainder.

“Don't do that!” Edward cautioned, mixing faster. “Now I've got to add more of the dry goods, and—”

“I've worked in enough kitchens to know this won't kill you,” Oswald said, dumping the rest of the flour mixture for him before whisking the liquid measuring cup and bowl to the sink. “Trust me.”

Edward redoubled his efforts with the spatula, irked that Oswald had thrown a spanner in the works.

“You know there aren't cookie cutters in this house, right?” Oswald asked, hugging him from behind.

“Oh, I don't need any of _those_ ,” Edward replied, grinning over his shoulder. “I can freehand it.”


	5. Spring Break

The expediency of hiding away in the wake of Edward's latest attempt at pushing the GCPD too far had left Oswald with few options. March was an unpleasant month in Gotham at a baseline, so reaching out to Carmine Falcone at his winter estate on Captiva Island hadn't been arduous.

There was hardly a lick of breeze, but the sun was relentless. Even a generously-sized beach umbrella wasn't doing much to reduce the glare.

Oswald pushed his sunglasses up the bridge of his nose and curled more tightly into a beach-blanket burrito, determined not to let in any sand.

“Not _again_ ,” Edward complained loudly from somewhere near the water. “Occupied. Darn!”

“Just kill it,” Oswald muttered, picking uncomfortably at his swim trunks. They itched, and he'd be damned if anyone on the property, private beach or not, would see him like this.

“That's illegal,” said Edward, mouth on auto-pilot, but the subsequent pause suggested his brain had caught up. “It's a gem specimen. Fine pattern, high gloss. I'd have to boil—” 

“Gross,” Oswald yawned, rolling onto his back, letting the blanket slip just enough to expose his shoulder. He'd refused sunscreen on insistence that he had no plans to leave the shade.

“You eat escargot,” Edward pointed out, and something pointedly went _plop_ in his bucket.

“People don't eat what you're collecting,” Oswald said. “I doubt olive shells taste like their namesake.”

“Maybe if there were periwinkles or abalones,” Edward mused, falling silent again. “I'd cook for us.”

“Carmine's no fan of the exotic,” Oswald cautioned. “Shrimp and lobster are as far as the man goes.”

“I forget which whelks are poisonous,” Edward said. “I wouldn't want to stage an accidental hit.”

Oswald opened his eyes and pushed his sunglasses into his hair, blinking up at the striped interior of the umbrella. It amazed him that Edward had no concept of coastal backwater exile as punishment.

“We won't be eating _anything_ you drag in, Ed,” he said sternly. “Not even fish. Is that clear?”

Edward hummed noncommittally. There was silence, punctuated by _plops_ , for a while longer.

Unable to recall when he'd drifted off, Oswald woke to find a charmingly sunburnt Edward cozied up to him. He watched hazily as a swell of wind stirred to ruffle the damp wave of Edward's hair.

“With these on,” Edward said, leaning over Oswald as he maneuvered the sunglasses back onto Oswald's face, “you look like an old-fashioned movie star. Perfect hair and all.”

“Shut up,” Oswald grumbled, letting Edward worm his way under the blanket, which wasn't spacious enough to accommodate the entirety of Edward's long legs. “There'd better not be paparazzi here.”

“They'd get shot at the perimeter,” said Edward, cheerfully, bumping his nose against Oswald's. “Hi.”

“If you're getting ideas,” Oswald warned, catching Edward's fingers at his waistband, “that's a _no_.”

“There's no sand on the blanket,” Edward breathed in Oswald's ear, tugging Oswald's trunks down anyway. “I checked,” he added, satisfied that Oswald's prick, at least, was with the program.

“You're lucky this isn't as difficult a proposition for us as— _oh_ ,” Oswald sighed faintly, relaxing beneath the insistent grind of Edward's palm. Maybe the blanket was good for something.

Edward stopped teasing Oswald just long enough to shuck off his trunks with no grace whatsoever.

“You're fast when you want to be,” he gasped against Oswald's temple, satisfied at the position afforded to them as Oswald rolled onto his side and tugged Edward's thigh over his hip.

“You're fast no matter what,” Oswald sneered, letting affection override his misgivings. “Ready?”

The damp slide of Edward's fingers over Oswald's hipbone suggested that he had seen to it. And few things struck Oswald as hotter than Edward fingering himself while he'd lain there waiting for Oswald to wake up and notice his shelling expedition was over.

“Yes,” said Edward, breathy as Oswald arched to meet him halfway, to push inside. “ _Oswald_.”

“Quiet,” Oswald hissed, flinging his sunglasses aside before hugging Edward tight. “Slow. Just like...”

He couldn't think, not like this, not buried to the hilt and trembling with each restrained roll of Edward's hips. Too much, actually _having_ the kind of love-drunk pleasure he'd always imagined he'd be denied. He couldn't help letting gravity lull him onto his back, couldn't help wanting to take the brunt of Edward's weight as Edward settled flush against him with a grunt.

“I'm,” Edward mumbled, movements tight and frantic, capturing Oswald's mouth in a sloppy kiss.

“ _Shhh_ , love,” Oswald whispered, trembling with laughter, in sheer delight. “So am I.”

Edward whimpered and clawed at the blanket, so Oswald captured his hand and clasped it.

“One for you,” said Oswald, deliriously, pressing his free hand to the small of Edward's back, “and...ah, _ah_.” He bit his lip, savoring the sensation of being pinned as he came, pinching Edward's backside so he'd lie still until it subsided.

“If you're still hard, I can keep, um,” Edward said hoarsely, licking Oswald's neck. “ _Pht_. Sand.”

Fifteen minutes and three more orgasms later, Edward was a warm, sleepy flop on Oswald's chest. One of those, at least, had been Oswald’s, and Edward had employed every trick he knew, mostly blushing his way through dirty-talk and not stifling his own noise, to make it last nearly a minute. That kind of sustained intensity seemed rare for either of them; Oswald’s pulse still raced with it.

Oswald couldn't be bothered to open his eyes and locate his sunglasses, so it came as something of an affront when one arm of the accessory in question tapped him on the forehead. Clearly, they weren't alone in their beach-blanket shenanigans. He blinked.

“You might not want to make a habit,” said the woman dangling the glasses over him. “There are security cameras.”

“You might not want to talk so loudly,” Oswald countered, shoving them one-handed onto his face. He studied the pinned-back dark hair and high cheekbones, wondering about the eyes behind those oversized tortoiseshell Prada shades. Her jawline was reminiscent of her father's. “Ed's a light sleeper in unfamiliar places,” Oswald went on. "He has a habit of keeping his switchblade nearby."

“Poor baby,” whispered Sofia Falcone, with mock nonchalance. “It looks like you wore him out.”

Oswald lifted his head just enough to verify that nothing untoward was currently exposed. Edward's calves and the curve of one bony knee didn't count. Beneath the blanket, however, was another matter.

“He wears himself out if I let him, and that's half the fun,” he told her primly. “Are you here to stare?”

Sofia shrugged and set her ringed hands on her bare knees, which skimmed the edge of the second blanket beneath them. She wore a navy swimsuit with mint polka-dots, a sheer scarf at her throat.

“Only at what I can see,” she said with a hint of wary indifference. “The rest doesn't mean much.”

Oswald threaded his fingers in Edward's hair, pressing his lips to the top of Edward's tousled head.

“I imagined you'd be taller,” said Oswald, hoping to charm his way out of scrutiny. “Home for good?”

Sofia shrugged again, lifting one poised finger to brush a strand of hair from her lips. “Seems like.”

“We don't want trouble,” Oswald went on. “However much this one makes it look like the contrary.”

“Call me crazy, but I think he's listening,” Sofia said, raising her eyebrows in challenge. “Hi, Eddie.”

“Don't call me that,” Edward muttered petulantly against Oswald's chest. “Worst introduction ever.”

“At least you didn't freak about getting caught,” Sofia told him patronizingly. “Gold star for you.”

Oswald watched appraisingly as Edward lifted his head to squint at her. He was deceptively vulnerable without his glasses, all kiss-stung lips and seemingly bewildered brown eyes.

“You might want to tell your father this property's real value is past the tide-line,” he said cryptically.

“Oh, I know about the lettered olives,” Sofia said. “We've got a population of golden ones out here.”

Edward let his head drop back against Oswald's chest, face down. “Nerd,” he said with forced disdain.

Sofia raised her eyebrows at Edward's full bucket, and then graced Oswald with an unimpressed wink.

“What's he trying to do, corner the black market with gem-grades?” she asked. “Win a school prize?”

At the reflexive twinge of Edward's shoulder blades beneath his palm, Oswald felt his hackles rise. He didn't know the ins and outs of conchological competition, but Edward's interests were off-limits.

“Your father showed us Mario's collection,” Oswald said with calculating calm. “Those scotch bonnets? Quite the _coup de grâce_.”

Sofia's expression crumpled for the briefest of moments, genuinely stung. She squared her shoulders and got to her feet, flip-flops grating.

“There are nicer places to fuck,” she said as she strolled away. “I'm sure Daddy showed you those, too. He's a gracious host.”

“What just happened,” Edward mumbled, rubbing his cheek against Oswald's nipple, too desultory to form a question.

“Weak spot,” Oswald said, kissing Edward's forehead. “Her dearly departed brother. Make a note of it.”


	6. Swallow It

Edward cupped one delicate white trumpet in his left hand, using his right to hold the datura's lower leaves out of the way while Ivy watered it. The shape of its lone blossom was pleasing. 

Ivy chattered blithely as she worked, sunlight through the greenhouse panels setting her blinding hair alight. The subject of her conversation finally captured Edward's attention.

“When even Zsasz and his crew are going to be there,” she said, “you _know_ it's gonna be awesome. Party of the summer, the older street kids always said, since Wayne Enterprises is a huge sponsor. This growth spurt is the best thing that's ever happened to me.”

“Wait,” Edward interjected, blinking rapidly as she withdrew the watering can. “There's a parade?”

“Duh,” Ivy replied, insistently pushing his hands away from the datura. “It's June. Gotham Pride?”

“Oh,” Edward said, dabbing at his forehead with the pocket square he'd set aside. “I've never gone.”

Ivy punched him in the shoulder. “Not the kinda thing you thought about before meeting Pengy, huh?”

Edward shook his head, realizing his cheeks were hot. Whether he was blushing or it was the side-effect of spending nearly two hours in glass-refracted sunlight was anyone's guess.

“Aw, it's okay,” Ivy said, patting his arm, handing him his jacket from the peg on the support-beam behind them. “Just 'cause we know we're freaks doesn't mean we know where we fit in.”

“I know now,” Edward parried, shrugging into his jacket. He tucked his pocket square back in place.

“Then maybe you should convince the hubby—oh, sorry, the _boss_ —to take you. Like a date.”

Retorting that every evening at the former Van Dahl mansion, mere miles up the road from Ivy's squat-reclaimed homestead, was a kind of date seemed gauche. He cleared his throat.

“Oswald enjoys public engagements, but not ones that put our private life _too_ much on display.”

Ivy flashed him a wicked smile, hugging the potted datura to her chest. She kissed the white blossom.

“But you like being on display, don't you?” she countered. “Letting the whole city know he's yours?”

Edward ducked his head guiltily and started for the entrance to the house. “What I prefer is irrelevant.”

“Hey, Green Dad!” Ivy called, dashing after him as he reached the airy shambles of a dining room.

“Don't call me that,” Edward sighed, halting his steps, turning to face her. “At least not to my face.”

Grinning, Ivy swiped a bundle of colorful carnations out of a nearby vase. She thrust them at him. 

“Flowers make the persuasion go down, am I right?” she asked hopefully. “Grown-ups love that shit.”

“You're thinking of medicine, and it's sugar,” said Edward, dubiously, taking the bouquet. “Thanks.”

On the short drive home, Edward counted his blessings regarding the fact that Ivy's roommates—Selina, the furry, and Bridgit, the fire-bug—hadn't been home. They would have hounded him.

Oswald complained loudly from the sitting room that Edward had taken a detour through the kitchen. When he saw the kaleidoscopic cause, now in a vase that Edward was centering before him on the cherry-wood coffee table, his features softened.

“Miss Pepper will be useful when renovations on the club are finished, won't she?” he said in awe.

Edward accepted Oswald's outstretched hand, content to be tugged down beside Oswald on the sofa.

“Yes,” he agreed, leaning forward to adjust the vase. “These shades are difficult to induce without food coloring. I can't think of the last time I saw blue carnations. Or lavender ones, _or_ green.”

Oswald pulled Edward's hands away from the flowers, pressing them to his chest. “Hello, handsome.”

Edward took that as an invitation to kiss Oswald as unchastely as he wished, seeing as Olga was nowhere in sight. He tugged at the casual silk scarf tucked into Oswald's collar, seeking skin.

“Speaking of oddly-colored carnations,” Edward mumbled against Oswald's jaw, “Pride's tomorrow.”

Oswald snorted, unbuttoning Edward's jacket so he could untuck Edward's sweat-damp cotton shirt.

“Last time I checked,” he said, tensing deliciously as Edward tugged the scarf aside to nip at Oswald's neck, “this isn't the nineteenth century, and we don't do parades.”

“We did when you got elected,” Edward shot back, lapping the spot he'd bitten, until Oswald melted.

“This is different,” Oswald panted, unfastening Edward's trousers, slipping his hand inside. “Garish.”

Edward wanted to protest, wanted to say that it _wasn't_ —that he was as proud of Oswald now as he was during their sojourn in city hall, that he wanted to be seen at his side—but he couldn't think. Oswald's palm rubbed at his prick even as Oswald worked a cautious finger inside him. Trembling, he spread his legs and caught Oswald's earlobe between his teeth.

“You're not going to make it, are you,” Oswald scolded, affection obvious beneath his mock-derision.

“No, but,” Edward gasped, squeezing his eyes shut as Oswald stroked him to climax, “ _but_ —who cares.” He groaned, riding out the sharp, exquisite swell of it. “I'll just...”

“You'll offer me some half-baked deal, won't you,” Oswald suggested, giving Edward's belly a pat before withdrawing his hand. “A wager, maybe?” he asked, licking his fingers clean.

Edward slid to the floor, his knees scarcely up to the job of supporting him. “A wager,” he echoed, unbuttoning Oswald's trousers. “Hmmm,” he mused, popping the button on Oswald's boxers with more ease, pretending to ignore Oswald's moan as he nuzzled his way inside.

“Ed,” Oswald whispered, raking his fingers through Edward's hair as Edward teased him, “ _yes_.”

Edward surrendered the perfect, desperate mouthful he'd taken, considering the odds. As much as he wanted to attend the next morning's festivities, Oswald hated crowds and long hours on his feet.

“If you can answer my riddle, we won't go,” he offered, locking eyes with Oswald as he licked the tip of Oswald's cock. “But if you can't solve it, we're booking a balcony table for brunch at the Clermont so we have an excellent view of the floats. Agreed?”

Oswald nodded faintly, struggling to form words as Edward lapped at him. “That's... _ah_ , fair...”

“I can be swallowed,” said Edward, letting his lips brush against Oswald, hoping to make it clear that the too-easy offering was a way out, “but I can also swallow you. What am I?”

Taking Edward's face in both hands, Oswald thrust up carefully, nudging Edward's willing lips apart.

“No idea,” he whimpered, eyes fluttering shut as Edward, with stunned pleasure, sucked him deep.

Afterward, Edward stripped down and straddled his still-dazed husband against the plush cushions.

“I'll make the reservation later,” he whispered hotly against Oswald's cheek, pleased with his victory.

An hour of half-naked napping left them in high spirits for supper, although they scarcely made it upstairs with their clothing in tow when Olga arrived with groceries. She served them with hauteur even though her eyes had been spared, leaving them to parcel out dessert on their own.

While Oswald prepared for bed, Edward stared out the window at bats swooping through summer dusk while he made arrangements by phone. The Clermont concierge, at least, knew to humor him.

Come dawn, to say that Oswald was unhappy Edward had set an alarm for six was an understatement.

“You look so good in that suit I almost want to stay home,” Edward confided, tucking one of the two green carnations he'd trimmed short into Oswald's buttonhole, “and take it back off.”

“Not after all this trouble,” Oswald said, snatching the second from Edward's grasp, returning the favor.

Inasmuch as Edward had grown fond of conversing with their driver, Caroline, he kept his mouth shut during the ride into town. Olga had sent a thermos of coffee with them, the better to fuel Oswald's caffeine habit acquired in office. When Oswald offered him a sip, Edward took it.

Gabriel and the new bodyguard they'd hired, a taciturn Latina with indigo-streaked hair, said nothing.

The Clermont staff were used to Oswald's security detail. While Gabriel and the sharpshooter, who introduced herself as Vee, joined Caroline at a table adjacent to the door leading onto the balcony, Edward assured the concierge who seated them that they'd be able to see everything.

“Mimosas, please,” Oswald yawned behind his hand, leaning over the railing to study the crowd below.

“Look,” Edward said, indicating two sets of tense shoulders and one shabby grey hat. “Old friends!”

From his spot on the curb next to Detective Gordon, Detective Bullock looked up. “Jesus Christ.”

Oswald waved as Gordon turned to gaze at them wearily. “Why, hello there, Jim. Fancy meeting—”

“Yeah,” Jim said, waving dismissively, placing a consoling hand on Harvey's shoulder. “Same to you!”

Edward intercepted their mimosas as the blasé concierge brought them out, drinking half of his at once.

“Chaperoning plebs,” he said, clinking his glass against Oswald's. “Isn't this below your pay grade?”

“Get lost, Ed!” Bullock retorted without sparing him a second glance. “Parade's startin' without ya!”

Looking as if he longed to upend his glass on Bullock's head, Oswald took Edward's fingers in his grasp. Instead, he kissed the back of Edward's hand and drank as much as Edward had.

“ _Pssst_ , Nygma,” hissed a mischievous voice from just below the railing. “He's kinda right.”

“Miss Kyle, I suggest you rejoin your colleagues on the ground this _instant_ ,” Oswald hissed.

Selina shrugged, waving from her perch on the Clermont's front awning. “Ivy's an embarrassment.”

Edward squinted past her into the crowd below as generic pop music buoyed the festive atmosphere.

“If hitting on _your_ girlfriend while wearing an outfit comprised of items stolen from _me_ is what you mean,” he remarked, recognizing the trousers and hat instantly, “then I agree.”

“See, Pengs?” Selina asked an increasingly irate Oswald, hands spread wide. “Riddle-man agrees.”

“Please don't call me that,” Edward said, taking another gulp of mimosa. “Where's your...admirer?”

“Bruce the douche?” asked Selina, rolling her eyes, pointing at the spectacle. “Three floats thataway. Alfred says he's been a right git—that's a direct quote—and deserves to wave at people all day.”

“This lasts _all day_?” Oswald said in horror, flagging down the nearest server. “Another drink.”

“Of course not,” Edward said placatingly. “That's an exaggeration. _Ooh_. I'll have another, too.”

“Do me a solid and pass down one of those girly cocktails,” Selina griped, subsiding back into silence.

The first several entourages were a sea of DIY rainbow swag that hurt Edward's eyes after about ten minutes. He was as relieved as Oswald when the concierge appeared to take their food order.

Enjoyable enough, Edward decided, to pass the morning holding Oswald's hand, drinking champagne with peach-orange purée, and watching his least favorite detectives attempt to persuade Selina down from the awning. Oswald's increasing gestures of affection deterred their attention.

“Yo, lovebirds, here it comes,” Selina shouted up to them at length, pointing. “The main attraction!”

The Wayne Enterprises float seemed staid after what amateur organizations had come before, trimmed in crisp, jewel-toned banners and populated by various dull, suited executives. Easier on the eyes, perhaps, and admirably diverse in the flags wielded by said employees.

Edward rested his cheek against his and Oswald's joined hands. “That's us,” he said, indicating the two permutations of pink, blue, and white, as well as the purple ring against a gold background.

“Yes, darling,” Oswald agreed placidly, pushing Edward's cuff back just far enough to kiss his wrist.

Before he could return the favor, the daïs at the center of the float—and who was seated on it—caught and held Edward's fascination. Bruce, smartly-dressed and surly, waved a miniature rainbow flag.

Behind the reluctant Wayne heir stood the formidable butler, Pennyworth, and none other than Edward's successor in the GCPD Forensics Department. To Edward's delighted shock, the pair of them wore matching, understated green-crêpe rosette lapel pins.

Oswald, taking note of Edward's captured attention, scoffed and downed the rest of his third mimosa.

“Hey, Foxy!” Edward called, deciding the crowd's clamor was decent enough cover. “Great minds!”

While the float came to its obligatory halt for the thickest of the crowd, Lucius stared at the Clermont balcony in consternation while Alfred whispered something in his ear.

“Bet he's tellin' him not to make eye contact,” Selina said with mock-glumness, reaching up through the slats in the railing to pat Edward's shoe. “Being an under-appreciated stalker must suck.”

“If you like getting paid regularly,” said Oswald, tartly, his tipsiness apparent, “go somewhere else.”

“Righto, boss,” said Selina, giving a shrill whistle. She dropped soundlessly toward the pavement, caught in the nick of time by a staggering, giggling Ivy while an unimpressed Bridgit looked on.

Edward gave Ivy a double thumbs-up, grateful that she'd removed the source of Oswald's annoyance.

“Gotcha covered!” Ivy called reassuringly, tipping her borrowed bowler. “Sweet threads, by the way!”

“Don't look now, but those camera-flashes are aimed at us,” Oswald muttered, surreptitiously claiming Edward's untouched third drink. “This was a terrible—”

The sound that pitched the back-end of Wayne Enterprises' float into chaos sounded approximately like a bottle rocket. Unclear, whether the perpetrator had launched his distraction from the crowd and climbed aboard or emerged from somewhere within—but, suddenly, there he was.

“Mr., Ms., and Mx., step _right_ on up,” crowed Jerome, bare arms spread wide as Wayne Enterprises employees screamed and gave him a wide berth. “It's time for the greatest show on earth!”

Leaning heavily with jaw pressed into his right palm, Oswald left-handedly upended a liberal amount of champagne into one of his empty glasses. “There goes the neighborhood,” he slurred.

Edward was too morbidly fascinated, not to mention buzzed, to even understand how Jerome had synthesized Circus Chic and Pride Minimalism into an entirely new and dreadful aesthetic. The shirtlessness and rainbow suspenders in conjunction with a ringmaster's trousers would have been horrifying enough, but the smiley-face stickers on his nipples _really_ sold it.

“Oh, it was already gone,” he said vaguely, patting Oswald's hand once it had dropped to the table.

Jerome cast about the float in frustration, grabbing and patting down random employees in exaggerated frustration. Only once he'd accosted a dozen people did he find what he'd been looking for: a megaphone. Several nerve-flaying “Testing? Testing!” false starts later, he hit his stride.

“Y'know, it's been a long time since I've seen some good old-fashioned, bring-the-family fun,” Jerome squawked, drawing out the final vowel with a tinny screech, gesturing with his free gloved hand. “It warms my heart to see Gotham gathered here in its, uh, most _eclectic_ attire.”

“Who invited the bloody sideshow?” asked Alfred, harshly enough to be heard above the nervous hush.

“Now _now_ ,” Jerome chided, wagging his finger as he approached the daïs and leapt onto it. “I have as much right to be here as the next person. I'm as queer as they come.”

“The girls'll be taking bets on which letter he is,” Oswald scoffed into his glass. “There's no J in—”

“ _Shhh_ ,” Edward hissed, rising from his seat to lean against the railing. He watched as Jerome stepped into Bruce's personal space, studying the young man from head to toe. “What is he...”

“Fool me once, shame on you,” said Jerome, dispensing with the megaphone. “Fool me twice, shame on—well, shame on you for that, too. I'm not big on shame. I don't _get_ it.”

“Just tell me what you want,” Bruce said, eerily calm and direct, making Edward think of the bats' calm dives toward their insect quarry. “Another TV spot? More funhouse mirrors? Money?”

Jerome made an impressive show of false consideration as the streets continued to empty. It was then that Edward noticed Jim and Harvey approaching with unabashed urgency from a block away.

“I'm gonna go out on a limb and say... _no_ ,” said Jerome, patting Bruce's cheek. “To all three.”

“Then what do you want?” Lucius asked, the twitch of his hand in his jacket pocket suggesting that he'd used a pager or some similar device to signal trouble. “You've lost your audience.”

“Not all of it, Clown Boy!” Selina called, this time from the roof above them. Edward peered up in time to see her waving down at them, flanked by Ivy and Bridgit. “This is boring! _Boo_!”

“In that case,” announced Jerome, conversationally, “what I'd really like is to blow this float sky high.”

“Boss,” Gabriel was saying urgently, grabbing Oswald's shoulder, “we've gotta go. Gotta go _now_.”

“You too, Mr. N,” said Caroline, nudging Edward's upper arm. “Even if you've gotta carry his ass.”

“Wait!” Edward yelled down to the trio on the float, aware that the detectives were nearly within range. “I have a better idea! In the festive spirit of the day, would you accept a challenge?”

Jerome let his hands fall to his sides, turning to zero in on the balcony with narrowed eyes. He grimaced, his amusement predatory as he glanced back and forth between Edward and Oswald.

“Your Highnesses do this humble fool honor,” he said, bowing with a showman's flair. “Your terms?”

Oswald got to his feet and rounded the table, almost knocking his chair over in the process. He scrambled to Edward's side, pushing Caroline out of the way, taking hold of Edward's arm.

“Ed, what are you _doing_?” he demanded with displeasure, clinging to Edward unsteadily. 

Undeterred, Edward squeezed Oswald's hand, refusing to look away from the men in the street below.

“Easy,” he said. “If you answer my riddle, detonate away. But if you can't solve it, then you leave.”

“I can see why they call you Riddler,” Jerome deadpanned. “Not the most original, but it's apt. Fine!”

Edward nodded, running a quick mental assessment of the more obscure literary-sourced material he'd committed to memory. Jerome had never struck him as the type to read dense timeless classics, and then there was the theme of the day.

Those elements in conjunction settled it. He'd go with Austen.

“My first displays the wealth and pomp of kings—lords of the earth, their luxury and ease. Another view of man, my second brings. Behold him there, the monarch of the seas! What am I?”

Jerome took a full thirty seconds to pace back and forth on the daïs, but not before taking Bruce by the wrist and towing him along for the stroll. He took it in remarkable stride, dashing to keep pace.

The diversion gave Jim and Harvey just enough time to mount the float, draw their guns, and enlist Alfred's help in wrangling Jerome away from Bruce. Baleful as they cuffed him, Jerome shrugged.

“I've got nothin'!” Jerome shouted to Edward, and Oswald laughed in dismay. “Throw me a bone?”

“The answer is courtship,” Edward called back, sliding an arm around Oswald as their security detail backed off, “although it's a moot point. Those stickers are a bold choice, by the way!”

“Such a polite young man you've got there,” Jerome said to Oswald, testing the give of his hands cuffed behind his back, which wasn't much. He sighed, looking from Harvey, who had his left bicep in a vise-grip, to Jim, who held his right elbow. “Well, if you're gonna be like that...”

Edward watched as Jerome made a lunge for Bruce, who hadn't retreated enough, and kissed his cheek.

“You were a treat in make-up, dollface,” Jerome said, winking at Bruce as the detectives hauled him off.

“That,” Oswald said, reaching behind Edward to swipe the champagne bottle, “was worth the outing.”

Edward could only nod in agreement, glancing over his shoulder at the cheering trio on the roof's edge.


End file.
